


Damaged Goods

by Dawn (sunrize83)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 11:20:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 57,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16386872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunrize83/pseuds/Dawn
Summary: Mulder returns to work after the events of Amor Fati. His attempt to profile a brutal serial killer reveals he has not fully recovered, but no one, including his doctor, seems to know why.





	1. Chapter 1

The X-Files Office  
Monday  
7:53 a.m.  
  


She knew he hadn't yet arrived the moment she set foot off  
the elevator. Mulder emitted an aura, an edgy intensity that  
crackled in the air like static electricity. Scully hadn't  
realized how accustomed to that energy she'd become until  
forced to spend the last several weeks without it -- and cold  
turkey, at that. 

The staccato click of heels on tile echoed the rapid beat of  
her heart as she slid her key into the lock and let the door  
swing slowly open. Dark, silent, stagnant. Scully turned on  
the lights with a flick of her finger, squinting a bit against  
sudden fluorescence, and laid her briefcase down on the  
small table that doubled as her desk. She shed her  
trenchcoat, started the coffee maker, and sat down to boot  
up her laptop. While the computer hummed and beeped its  
way to consciousness, her eyes drifted to the empty desk  
across the way and her lips curved in the suggestion of a  
smile. 

For nearly three weeks now she'd performed this same  
routine and today was no different, but for one notable  
exception. Instead of a sharp stab of fear, or even a  
bittersweet pang of longing, today the sight of that desk  
filled her with a rich and dizzying blend of emotions that  
defied translation. Today Mulder returned to work, chained  
to a desk for now -- no forays into the field to hunt sea  
monsters and mothmen -- but back where he belonged  
nonetheless. Cracking sunflower seeds and spitting shells  
into the wastebasket with an annoying "ping." Propping his  
feet up and trying to engage her in a deep discussion of  
why Gilligan and his friends could never seem to get off  
the damn island. Rifling through folders filed according to  
a system comprehensible only to himself, and whistling  
annoying little tunes under his breath until it set her teeth  
on edge. 

Driving her crazy. 

Thank God. 

Unbidden, the image of Mulder as she'd discovered him,  
pale and still as death, assaulted her senses. Left to die,  
abandoned like an old appliance -- no longer useful but too  
troublesome to dispose of. Grief and rage had nearly  
overwhelmed her, and she'd longed to surrender to her own  
tears, to gather Mulder into her arms and just hold him.  
Damn his mother and her passive complicity. Damn  
Smokey and his butchers. And damn Diana and her too  
little, too late. Then the weak rise and fall of his chest  
captured her eye and survival instinct kicked into high gear.  
She'd get them both out of the wolves' den no matter what  
it took. And Mulder would live to fight another day. 

"Our tax dollars hard at work." 

Every muscle in her body tensed and Scully narrowly  
avoided a girly scream. Mulder lounged in the open  
doorway, one eyebrow lifted quizzically and lips pursed in  
an amused smirk. Scully flushed, realizing he'd caught her  
woolgathering -- and while staring vacuously at his desk.  
He moved slowly into the office, stripping off his coat and  
sinking into his rickety chair with a contented expression  
that quickly snuffed Scully's spark of irritation. He tipped  
back at an impossibly precarious angle and laced his  
fingers behind his neck, sending her a blissful smile. 

"I'm baaaack!" 

"I'll alert the media," Scully replied dryly, but couldn't help  
grinning at his happiness. "Coffee?" 

Mulder looked at her cautiously. "Depends. You going to  
foist some of that foul tasting sludge on me? Or do I rate  
the good stuff now?" 

Scully rolled her eyes, collecting his mug and heading for  
the pot. "It's called decaf, Mulder. And yes, in celebration  
of your return I've made the good stuff. In fact, I even  
brought you breakfast." 

Setting the full mug carefully on his desk, she reached over  
to retrieve a small white paper bag and plopped it down  
beside the coffee. Mulder eyed the sack like a man afraid to  
hope he's won the lottery. 

"A bagel?" 

Scully sat down and treated herself to a long sip, hiding her  
smile with the rim of the cup. "Live dangerously, Mulder.  
See for yourself." 

Mulder unfolded the top and peered inside, then with a  
crow of delight pulled out an enormous Boston cr�e  
donut. "Ooo, Scully. You *know* what I like!" 

Scully watched him consume the pastry with gusto, unable  
to tear her eyes away when he began popping each finger  
into his mouth and sucking off the frosting while making  
little sounds of ecstasy. 

*That mouth should be registered as a deadly weapon* 

Her thoughts turned to the day she'd gone to Mulder's  
apartment, rocked by the knowledge of Diana's death. She'd  
convinced Skinner to allow her to break the news,  
determined that he be told not over a cold, impersonal  
phone line but by a living, breathing person who cared for  
him. Despite her own cocktail of confused feelings towards  
the woman, she'd braced herself for Mulder's pain, prepared  
to offer support and comfort as she had so many times  
during their history together. How ironic that it was Mulder  
who wound up consoling, she grieving. 

*You're my touchstone* 

She'd heard the words, seen their truth in his eyes, and  
teetered on the brink of insanity. Of throwing caution and  
six years of repressed desire to the four winds and just  
letting go. Then the despicable Scully reserve reasserted  
itself and the moment passed. But she could still feel his  
lower lip under the pad of her thumb... 

The phone rang, shaking her out of the memory and into  
the heat of Mulder's gaze. Keeping their eyes locked, he  
scooped up the receiver. 

"Mulder." 

His feet left the desktop with a thud and he leaned forward  
to brace both elbows in their place, finally releasing Scully  
from scrutiny. With an undetectable shiver, she  
straightened her suit jacket and tucked a wayward piece of  
hair behind one ear. That made two times Mulder had  
caught her daydreaming in the span of fifteen minutes.  
What on Earth was going on in her head these days? 

"Much better, thank you, sir...More like bored out of my  
mind, actually...I know, I know, I've read the  
paperwork...Yes, she's here...We'll be right up." 

Anxious to short circuit any questions about her  
preoccupation, Scully struck first. 

"Skinner checking up on you?" she asked as Mulder hung  
up the phone. 

A soft snort. "More like laying down the law. He made a  
point of reminding me that I'm flying a desk this week until  
Palermo signs my release. Sounded like he thought I might  
run off half cocked after the first mutant that strolls by." 

"Can't imagine where he'd get that idea," Scully mused  
breezily. 

Mulder made a face. "Ha, ha. Speaking of running off,  
where have *you* been today, Agent Scully? Before the  
phone rang you had totally zoned out on me. Not to  
mention the way you were catching flies when I walked in  
this morning." 

Scully willed herself not to fidget, to calmly return his  
gaze. "Just tired I guess, Mulder. It's been a rough month." 

The teasing glint in his eyes vanished, replaced with a  
tender concern that never failed to move her. "You all right,  
Scully? Have you been sleeping okay?" 

She allowed a slight smile as she stood and walked over to  
lean her hip against his desk. "I still have the odd nightmare  
or two -- nothing compared to yours, I'm sure," she added  
ruefully. "I guess I just have a lot to process. It's going to  
take a little time." 

Mulder traced one long finger over the back of her hand.  
"You still haven't told me everything that happened while I  
was... When I was sick." 

"Neither have you," Scully replied, knowing she sounded  
defensive but unable to stifle her reluctance to open  
Pandora's box and disrupt the fragile peace she'd found. 

Mulder's eyes darkened and his jaw tightened. "I know.  
Guess I still have some processing to do myself." 

Displeased by the melancholy turn in the conversation,  
Scully ducked her head to look directly into his eyes.  
"When I work it out, you'll be the first to know, Mulder.  
Scout's honor." 

Like quicksilver, the mischief was back. Mulder stood,  
crowding into her personal space. "Scully, I just got this  
incredible image of you in a little green dress, selling  
cookies," he said in a low voice, waggling his eyebrows. 

She pursed her lips. "You might be surprised to know I had  
quite the gift for sales, Mulder. In fact, I sold more boxes of  
cookies than anyone else in my troop." 

Mulder held open the door and ushered her through, his  
hand warming the small of her back. "Doesn't surprise me a  
bit, partner. I'd personally buy anything you were selling." 

Scully rewarded him with a full-throated laugh. "I'm going  
to remind you of that, Mulder. Probably when it's least  
convenient."  
  


A.D. Skinner's office  
Monday  
8:30 a.m.  
  


"Agents. Have a seat." 

Skinner didn't bother to rise when they walked into his  
office, in fact, barely looked up from the file folder he was  
reading. He looked worn, as if the events of the past month  
had leeched away his sense of purpose, leaving only  
dogged determination in the wake. 

"Sir," Scully murmured, lowering herself cautiously into  
her usual seat. 

Mulder heard the subtle note of uncertainty, knew that  
Scully still wrestled with doubts where Skinner was  
concerned. She'd shared only a little of her dealings with  
their boss during the time he was drooling in a padded cell,  
but it was enough for Mulder to realize that she'd guessed  
Skinner's duplicity. 

Skinner evidently heard the hesitation, because his head  
snapped up and his dark eyes regarded her intently for a  
moment before sliding over to rest on Mulder. 

"You're looking much better than the last time I saw you,  
Agent Mulder." 

"Catatonic was never my look," Mulder replied, tilting his  
head a little in assent. "But then, I don't have to tell you  
that." 

Something very like gratitude flickered in Skinner's eyes,  
assuring Mulder that his message had been received. He  
held no grudge against the man -- on the contrary, he'd  
experienced his boss' remorse and self-loathing up close  
and personal. Though a small portion of him resented  
Skinner's betrayal, he understood the agony of being caught  
between a rock and a very hard place. And ultimately,  
when push came to shove, Skinner had risked everything to  
help him. 

"I called the two of you up here because..." Skinner broke  
off, glancing back down at the file folder with an  
expression of distaste. 

"Sir?" 

Scully's question communicated the confusion Mulder felt  
at Skinner's uncharacteristic lack of direction. Normally,  
meetings between the three of them proceeded in an  
orderly, almost militaristic manner with Skinner  
moderating to keep them in line with his agenda. Seeing  
him at a lack for words was unnerving. 

Skinner sighed, folded his hands, and looked up with a  
furrowed brow. "I wanted to reiterate, with both of you  
present, that Agent Mulder is on light duty and strictly  
forbidden to involve himself in any ongoing investigations.  
No one but myself has the authority to countermand that  
directive -- is that clear?" 

Scully's eyes darted to Mulder's before returning to  
Skinner, her expression mystified. "Yes, sir. You've made  
that perfectly clear to both myself and Agent Mulder." 

"And I believe I've sufficiently assured you that I intend to  
abide by those restrictions," Mulder added, voice tight with  
irritation. "Now if you want, I could do 'cross my heart,  
hope to die...'" 

"Knock it off, Mulder," Skinner growled. "Your word is  
sufficient." 

"Is there a problem, sir?" Scully asked, her blue eyes boring  
into Skinner's. "Does it have something to do with that  
folder you were reading when we came in?" 

Bingo. 

Skinner's jaw clenched and the small muscle near his cheek  
twitched in agitation. Mulder uncrossed his leg and sat  
forward, resting his forearms on his knees. 

"If there is, I think I have a right to know about it." 

Another sigh, this one more explosive, and Skinner pinched  
the indentations left by his glasses on the bridge of his  
nose. "I assume you've both heard of the Pro-Choice  
murders?" 

Mulder and Scully conferred silently with their eyes before  
nodding. "Someone has been butchering women who have  
scheduled abortions," Scully said smoothly, emotionlessly.  
"They haven't been able to tie the deaths to a specific clinic  
or doctor. So far four women have died." 

"Five," Skinner corrected tersely. "The first murder  
occurred ten months ago -- the Bureau's been involved for  
the past six. Involved but unable to make any real headway.  
So far all leads have turned into dead ends, and the media  
has transformed this into a political nightmare. Public  
outcry is increasing with every murder and the Director is  
under tremendous pressure." 

"They want me on the case," Mulder said quietly. "Is that it,  
sir?" 

Skinner grimaced, the muscle twitching furiously now. "I  
have unequivocally informed Jeffreys that you are on  
restricted duty and will not be able to assist VCS at this  
time." 

"But you think he might not abide by your wishes?" Scully  
pressed. 

Skinner eyed her shrewdly. "Just covering all my bases." 

"Sir. I'm not disputing the imposition of restricted duty,  
I freely admit I'm not ready for anything physically  
strenuous. But we're talking about profiling here,  
essentially a desk job, and..." 

Mulder's voice evaporated when he realized that Skinner  
was staring at him with a look of outrage and Scully just  
looked pissed. "What?" he demanded defensively. 

Skinner slowly shook his head, but his words were not  
unkind. "I've seen you profile, Mulder. Multiple times. I  
think it's safe to say that it would not be in line with your  
limitations." 

"And I was there for the Mostow case," Scully added  
sharply. "For you, Mulder, profiling *is* a strenuous  
activity. Speaking as your doctor, you aren't up to it." 

Mulder glanced away, guilt darkening his features.  
"Women are dying, Scully." 

"As you nearly did yourself. Mulder, we still don't know  
exactly what was done to you in that operating room. Let it  
go." 

The passion in her voice reached out and drew him gently  
back from the darkness, reminding him that Scully bore her  
own wounds. 

"Okay," he conceded, unable to look at her. "You've made  
your point." 

"If anyone -- *anyone*-- tries to contact you about this  
case, Mulder, I want to be the first to know," Skinner said  
vehemently. "That includes casual cafeteria conversation  
and anonymous emails. Have I made myself clear?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"That's all. Consider this the perfect opportunity to catch up  
on that backlog of paperwork the X-Files seem to  
generate." 

They left the office in a silence that continued down the  
hallway to the elevator. 

"I think I've just been sentenced to hell," Mulder grumbled  
as he punched the button. When the doors slid open he  
quirked an eyebrow at Scully and made a sweeping gesture  
with his hand. "After you, Dante. Going down."  
  


Georgetown  
Wednesday  
9:43 p.m.  
  


"No, Mulder. It's absolutely out of the question, even if  
Skinner signs the 302 -- which he won't!" 

"Sculleee! You're being completely unreasonable about  
this!" 

Scully sank back into a striped cushion, took another  
swallow from the amber bottle in her hand, and glared at  
her partner. "I've been extremely reasonable, Mulder. I  
allowed you to bribe me into sifting through potential  
casefiles tonight, sacrificing my free time, with nothing  
more spectacular than a pizza and a six pack. I've endured  
the way you pick out the green peppers and leave them on  
the lid of the box without complaint. And I've ignored your  
pointed remarks about the inferiority of iced tea from a  
bottle. I've got to draw the line somewhere." 

Mulder scowled, his lower lip protruding in a classic pout.  
"You know I hate green peppers. And I wouldn't be  
criticizing the tea if you'd just let me have a beer." 

Scully rolled her eyes. "Please, Mulder, you know the drill.  
Until Palermo takes you off the Dilantin both alcohol and  
fieldwork are out of the question. And I hardly think that  
looking into a...an alleged *werewolf* is appropriate for  
your first case back! We investigate X-Files, Mulder. Not  
tabloid headlines." 

Mulder smirked. "There's a difference?" When Scully  
refused to appear even slightly amused, he sighed. "What is  
it about this case that you find totally improbable -- as  
opposed to the other cases that you find only highly  
improbable?" 

That actually earned him a small grin. "Mulder, look at the  
facts. Some cattle wind up dead under suspicious  
circumstances outside a sleepy little town and the locals are  
understandably shaken. Add to that a tall tale by the  
resident drunk..." 

"Eccentric, Scully." 

"An eccentric who likes to consume homemade brew," she  
countered dryly. "My point is that looking at this file I see  
little or no hard evidence to support the kind of creature  
you postulate." 

As she spoke, Scully noticed Mulder rubbing the thumb of  
his left hand over the knuckle of the fourth finger. It wasn't  
the first time she'd observed the gesture, which seemed to  
be a carryover from his recent trauma, a nervous habit he'd  
picked up in the hospital. She knew he wasn't aware he did  
it, and had elected not to comment on the little  
idiosyncrasy. After all he'd been through it seemed an  
insignificant side effect. 

"I disagree," Mulder replied stubbornly, oblivious to her  
scrutiny. "Besides eyewitness testimony, there's the matter  
of the recovered footprints and the bitemarks on the  
remains. Both defy standard classification, neither human  
nor animal as we would normally categorize them." His left  
hand ceased its fidgeting and his right came up to cup the  
back of his neck. 

"I'll admit the forensic evidence is a bit strange," Scully  
replied a little impatiently. "But that doesn't warrant the  
kind of extrapolation you're making, Mulder, that some  
kind of wolf-human hybrid is responsible." 

Mulder huffed out an explosive burst of air. "Why is it so  
hard for you to consider, Scully? We've certainly had  
experience with nature gone amuck. Tooms, the Jersey  
Devil - - hell, what about the Manitou! We *saw* it in the  
Parker house? Remember?” 

“Mulder, it was too dark to see anything! And when all was  
said and done we had a dead *man* on our hands, not some  
werewolf! The Manitou was a legend, a story concocted to  
tell around a campfire.” 

“Scully, shapeshifting, lycanthropy -- these concepts aren't  
simply baseless fabrications crafted by adults to g...give the  
kiddies a good scare! There are documented c...cases of  
l...lycanthropy that d...date back to...to..." 

Mulder's voice trailed off into silence. The tiny line that  
creased Scully's forehead, which had appeared when he  
began to stutter, deepened while he stared blankly into  
space and the nervous motion of his thumb resumed. His  
hazel eyes looked muddy, slightly out of focus. 

"Mulder?" she prodded. Then, when he didn't respond,  
more forcefully, "MULDER." 

Though her pitch remained low, Mulder startled as if she'd  
uttered a blood-curdling shriek. Scully laid her hand over  
his, disturbed by the chilled flesh and the thin sheen of  
perspiration on his brow. 

"Hey, partner. Who's catching flies this time?" she gibed  
gently. "Where were you just now?" 

Mulder met her questioning gaze and Scully was relieved  
to see that most of the vagueness had disappeared from his  
eyes. "I... I can't... Scully, I *know* that information, I've  
done extensive reading on this subject. Lycanthropy was  
first reported in...in India. No, that's not right, it was  
in...in... SHIT!" 

He jerked his hand from her grasp, lunging to his feet and  
pacing back and forth. 

"Mulder..." 

Mulder silenced her with a scowl and a furious flick of his  
wrist. Scully watched him wear a groove in her carpet for  
several minutes, his agitation growing, until he abruptly  
stopped, wincing in pain, and massaged his forehead. He  
then passed the trembling hand down his face until his  
fingers pressed his lips. 

"I can't remember, Scully. I... It's like it's there, but...out of  
reach. The harder I try, the more it slips away." 

Scully rose, weaving her way around the coffee table to  
stand in front of him. “Headache?” she asked. When he  
reluctantly nodded, she continued, “Mulder. This is your  
first week back to work. It's been a long day, it's getting  
late, and you're tired. Under the circumstances I'd say it's  
perfectly understandable that you would forget..." 

Mulder glanced away, his jaw thrust stubbornly forward. "I  
have an eidetic memory, Scully. I don't just forget things." 

Scully pressed one hand to his chest, the slightly elevated  
beat of his heart vibrating beneath her palm. "What you  
have, is a body that is still struggling to throw off the  
effects of an extreme trauma. Cut yourself a little slack,  
Mulder." 

She deliberately returned to the couch and began gathering  
up files, hoping to ease Mulder's tension by behaving as  
nonchalantly as possible. After a moment Mulder joined  
her, stacking folders and placing them into his briefcase.  
Scully took the opportunity to surreptitiously observe him,  
noting that his hands were steady and his demeanor calm,  
though fatigue darkened the skin beneath his eyes and  
etched lines around his mouth. Her stomach twisted  
uneasily at the thought of him driving home alone. 

"Why don't you just crash on the couch, Mulder?" she  
asked, trying to make it sound natural, keeping her voice  
light and conversational. "I'll set the alarm so that you have  
plenty of time to go home and clean up before work." 

Peripherally, she perceived him falter in his motions, felt  
the razor edge to his gaze. "Thanks for the offer, but I think  
I'll drive these traumatized bones home. I sleep better in my  
own bed." 

Scully arched an eyebrow. "Half the time you don't sleep in  
a bed, Mulder. Come on, it's late and you look beat." 

He snapped the briefcase shut with more force than  
necessary and straightened, hands on hips. "I am not an  
invalid, Scully. I am perfectly capable of getting myself  
home. I’ll be taking a cab, so you won’t even have to worry  
I’ll fall asleep and wrap the car around a tree. I don't need  
you to take care of me." 

Though she understood, even shared Mulder's fear of  
dependence, his rebuff drew blood. Scully felt the coaxing  
smile on her lips turn brittle as she gathered up empty  
bottles and headed for the kitchen. When she'd finished  
rinsing them in the sink, Mulder was propped in the  
doorway, looking both irritated and contrite. 

"Scully, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I'm just tired  
of being treated like a child. I know my own limitations and  
I don't need you or Skinner deciding what I can and cannot  
do!" 

The annoyance faded and he stepped through the doorway,  
leaning against the counter near her left elbow. "The worst  
thing about being in the hospital, before that cigarette  
smoking bastard took me, was the complete lack of  
control," he said softly, his focus leaving her face and  
turning inward. "Not only did I have no say in the tests, the  
treatments, I couldn't even command my own body. I'd lie  
there and piss in my pants because I couldn't connect  
enough with the outside world to ask to use the bathroom. I  
was trapped on the other side of a void, a chasm, watching  
while they pumped me full of drugs and tied me to the bed.  
I just couldn't find the bridge." 

Mulder blinked, eyes tracking slowly to her stricken face.  
"You were the bridge, Scully. You showed me the way.  
And I will never, *never* be able to thank you enough. But  
it's over now, and I need to move past it. To take back what  
they stole from me. Can you understand that?" 

Scully braced her hands on the sink, looking down at a  
crack in the porcelain that resembled a fish. Wondering, not  
for the first time, if her days in Africa had been misspent.  
And if Mulder had paid the price. Shrugging off the  
niggling sensation of guilt, she lifted her eyes to study his  
face. 

"Mulder, do you remember what you said to me after  
Payton shot me? When you drove me home and refused to  
leave?" 

He grimaced at the barb and shook his head. 

"I do. It went something like this, and I quote, 'For God's  
sake, Scully, I thought I'd lost you. Just indulge me and let  
me take care of you -- for my sake, if not yours. I promise  
I'll respect you in the morning.'" 

"And your point is?" Mulder said, deadpan. When she  
folded her arms and eyed him narrowly, he sighed. "All  
right, all right. I get the correlation. Just don't give me that  
itchy blue blanket -- last time I scratched all night." 

"Deal," Scully replied, unable to completely mask the hint  
of triumph in her voice. "There’s aspirin in the medicine  
chest. And those ratty old sweatpants you left here are in  
the bottom drawer of my bureau." 

"Ratty?" Mulder feigned outrage as he ambled out of the  
kitchen and down the hallway. "I just got those broken in!" 

Scully pulled sheets and a spare comforter from the linen  
closet and set about transforming the couch into a bed.  
Mulder padded out of the bathroom just as she unfolded the  
blanket. 

"Do you have your meds with you?" she asked, then  
mentally kicked herself. Mulder was right, she was fussing,  
but he looked young and vulnerable clad in the gray sweats  
and sporting bare feet. 

"Yes, Mom," he replied, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly. 

"Sorry." She flopped down on top of the comforter and he  
joined her, his shoulder resting companionably against her  
own. "I know you don't need me hovering, Mulder." She  
shook her head ruefully. "I certainly haven't forgotten how  
annoying that can be. Between you and my mother I  
thought I'd lose my mind! I was afraid to inhale for fear  
that one of you would offer to breathe for me." 

"Hey, that bell idea was your mom's," Mulder protested,  
referring to the small brass chime her mother had insisted  
she use to spare her tender abdominal muscles the strain of  
calling out for assistance. 

They snickered quietly together for a moment, then Mulder  
sobered. 

"I haven't forgotten what it's like to be in your shoes,  
Scully. Every time I looked at you, even after you'd been  
home a few days, all I could see was the way you looked in  
that hospital bed. So pale and fragile. Part of me wanted to  
wrap you up in cotton and never let anything, or anyone,  
hurt you again." 

His declaration touched her deeply, but she pursed her lips.  
"I'm trying not to be offended by that, Mulder," she said  
dryly. "What about the other part?" 

Mulder broke into a simply diabolical grin. "Wanted to  
kick Payton's ass." 

Scully chuffed a little laugh. "You would've had to wait in  
line, partner." She leaned her head against his shoulder. "I  
must admit I've conjured up some pretty graphic images of  
what I'd like to do to our friend CGB." 

Mulder didn't respond at first, but the silence was a  
comfortable one. Scully was just beginning to feel sleep  
tugging at her eyelids when his words jerked her awake  
with all the finesse of a slap. 

"He called himself my father." 

Scully leaned forward and snapped her head around to  
regard him intently. "He *what*?" 

Mulder shrugged, wearing the blank, detached expression  
she knew he reserved for especially painful emotions. "He  
showed me a different life. One where Deep Throat was  
alive and my sister and her family lived right down the  
block." 

Some of the tension seeped out of Scully's shoulders. "It  
was a dream, Mulder. A hallucination, probably caused by  
the drugs." 

He nodded, thumb stroking his knuckle again and  
expression pensive. "My mother handed me over to him,  
Scully. Now, why do you suppose she'd do that?" 

She didn't like the implication, or his overly calm, resigned  
demeanor. Especially since she'd wrestled with similar  
concerns. 

"You were dying, Mulder. She was desperate and the  
doctors had run out of options. You've already established  
Spender was a family friend and we both know how  
persuasive he can be. I don't think you should jump to  
conclusions." 

Another nod and a strained smile. "You look tired, Scully,  
and I seem to recall the purpose of this little slumber party  
was for me to get some sleep. That is, unless you have  
some ulterior motives?" The leer was a bit forced, but  
suitably lecherous. 

Scully patted his knee, affecting an expression of regret.  
"Sorry, G-man. No strenuous activity, remember? Check  
back with me when you're in peak physical condition and  
we'll talk." She waggled her eyebrows in a shameless  
parody. "Good night, Mulder." 

Mulder watched, mouth agape, as she sauntered over to  
turn out the light. "*Talking* is not exactly what I had in  
mind," he muttered, flopping down on his side and drawing  
the comforter up to his chin. "Night, Scully."  
  


The X-Files Office  
Friday  
12:16 a.m.  
  


Mulder squinted at the computer screen, one hand kneading  
the flesh between his eyes and the other clutching a pen  
poised impotently over a yellow legal pad. With a  
frustrated growl, he dropped the pen so that both hands  
could cradle his aching head. The harder he tried to focus,  
the more the words on the screen blurred into alphabet soup  
and the sharper the pain that pulsed through his skull like a  
cerebral heartbeat. 

Three hours poking through data -- normally enough time  
for him to grasp the pertinent details and begin formulating  
a preliminary theory. Today he felt as if he were wading  
through a bog, each step sluggish and achieved with great  
effort. 

*Maybe that's because you aren't supposed to be doing  
this,* his conscience whispered furtively, to which he  
sourly replied with a mental flip of his middle finger. 

It was funny, really. Before the meeting with Skinner, the  
Pro-Choice Murders had been just another headline on the  
front page of the newspaper. He hadn't exactly kept up with  
current events over the last month -- first isolated and  
catatonic in the hospital, then struggling to cope with the  
aftermath. About the only newsworthy occurrence to spark  
his interest was watching his beloved Yankees win the  
World Series. 

Then Skinner warned him off the case, and suddenly it was  
in his face everywhere he went. Snatches of conversation  
from agents in the hallways and cafeteria, heated discussion  
between passengers on the Metro as they perused the  
Washington Post, news broadcasts popping up every time  
he lay on his couch hoping to channel surf his way into the  
oblivion of sleep... Images, facts, and idle speculation  
bombarded his senses, and though at first he tried hard not  
to succumb, eventually the inevitable occurred. The  
insatiable Mulder curiosity was piqued. 

Inevitable because Mulder was bored. Not the "Ho, hum,  
what am I going to do with myself now?" kind of bored.  
This was the "If I don't get a case to sink my teeth into soon  
I'll go stark raving mad" kind. Though he still suffered from  
the odd headache and tired easily, he had nearly recovered  
physically. Until Palermo signed his medical release,  
however, he was prohibited from really doing his job.  
Writing reports, crunching numbers, attending meetings --  
it was all just going through the motions. And if he were  
brutally honest, what else did he have but his work? The  
World Series was over. He'd already spent one too many  
evenings with the boys consuming cheese steaks and  
listening to them spout their latest conspiracy theory. And  
Scully... Well, he sensed Scully struggling with her own  
issues and was loath to intrude. 

So instead of heading back to the office when Kramer and  
Lundstrom sat down at a nearby table and began debating  
the case, Mulder lingered. Instead of aimlessly flipping  
channels, he tuned to CNN. And he started buying his own  
copy of the Washington Post. All innocent acts, all  
incapable of drawing censure. Until this morning when he'd  
grit his teeth, told the little voice in his head to shut up, and  
crossed the line. 

Scully was at Quantico autopsying the granddaughter of a  
congressman. According to Skinner, the girl's death had all  
the earmarks of an OD, but the man's controversial stance  
on several upcoming bills warranted a thorough  
investigation to rule out foul play. Scully had donned her  
coat and packed her briefcase with a minimum of  
grumbling and repeated assurances that she'd be back in  
time to drive Mulder to his 2 p.m. doctor's appointment.  
She'd exited the office with a spring in her step that  
betrayed her relief at escaping the tedium of their enforced  
inactivity. Obviously Scully was just as bored as he was. 

After a short but heated debate with his conscience, Mulder  
had made a discreet call to an old friend in Violent Crimes.  
Soon, he was downloading data and pouring over copies of  
the casefile. He'd managed to shrug off the rapidly  
escalating headache, immersing himself in reading through  
case reports and studying copies of crime scene photos.  
Finally the pain in his head could no longer be ignored and  
he surfaced, feeling slightly nauseous and disoriented. 

When he'd squinted at his watch in annoyance, his mouth  
had dropped open in surprise. His phone call to Costanza  
seemed just minutes ago, yet somehow the entire morning  
had slipped by without notice. He folded his arms on top of  
the desk and dropped his head onto the makeshift pillow,  
closing his eyes. 

Missing time while profiling was not a new experience.  
During one exceptionally bad case while he was with  
VICAP he'd gone nearly seventy-two hours without  
sleeping or eating, so far down he'd suppressed the need for  
basic physical necessities. Mulder knew that by delving  
into the Pro-Choice case he was playing with fire, but his  
frustration and boredom had the effect of transforming it  
into a siren's song he could not resist. Still, he'd been  
confident that with a little extra effort he could exercise  
self-control and avoid losing himself completely. 

So much for that theory. 

Mulder opened his eyes and lifted his head, drawn once  
more to the photos lying beneath his fingertips, one thumb  
rubbing absently at a knuckle. Five young women, ranging  
in age from nineteen to thirty-seven. Abducted from home,  
from car -- even the mall in the most recent murder. No  
signs of forced entry. No signs of struggle. The bodies  
meticulously displayed, the fetus removed with surgical  
precision and taken from the scene. As yet, none had been  
recovered. 

Something about those missing babies bothered him and he  
couldn't seem to pin it down. It reminded him of the way  
Sam would vie for his attention when he tried to read a  
book, tickling the bottoms of his feet and then dancing  
away, just out of reach. The more he stretched his mind,  
grasping for the elusive idea, the farther it slid away. 

Mulder returned his head to its resting place on his arms,  
breathing through his mouth in an effort to ride out an  
abrupt wave of queasiness that had him feeling for the  
wastebasket with his left foot. The headache was blinding -  
\- he was certain that at any moment his skull would crack  
open and spill his brains onto the desk like gray jello. 

He was so far gone he never heard the rattle of elevator or  
the approaching footsteps. The door swung open and Scully  
swept into the office, cheeks tinged pink from the cold air  
and a very fragrant brown paper bag clutched in one hand. 

"Hey, partner. Hope you haven't eaten yet. I stopped at that  
great little Thai place down the street..." 

Mulder bolted. He was out the door, down the darkened  
hallway, and into the men's room before she'd finished  
speaking, his stomach demonstrating just what it thought of  
the takeout by trying to exit his body through his mouth.  
Crashing to his knees in front of the toilet he clutched the  
sides of the bowl and retched, moaning softly as each  
spasm shot agony through his head. 

When the dry heaves subsided he hauled himself unsteadily  
to his feet and staggered to the sink, rinsing his mouth and  
splashing cold water on his face. He ran damp fingers  
through his hair and stared at his reflection in the mirror,  
squinting against the harsh fluorescent lighting. His skin  
looked too pale, his eyes sunken. 

Mulder swore softly under his breath. "Scully sees you like  
this and next thing you know she'll be telling Palermo you  
need desk duty for another month," he muttered. 

Letting his eyes slip shut, he focused on taking several  
deep, cleansing breaths and relaxing clenched muscles. The  
headache refused to be pacified, but the churning in his gut  
did ease up a bit. With a final grimace at the mirror, he  
squared his shoulders and headed back to the office. 

"Sorry about that, Scully, I just..." 

*Shit* 

Scully turned slowly to face him, her back rigid and her  
face dark with fury. She silently extended her right hand,  
two of the crime scene photos clenched between her  
fingers. 

"So, did I hear you mention lunch?" Mulder asked weakly,  
taking the pictures and brushing past her to sit down at his  
desk. He quickly gathered the remaining photos and reports  
and stuffed them into the folder, feeling her eyes burning  
holes in the back of his neck. 

"Mulder, what in the hell do you think you're doing?" 

He looked up at her, trying for innocence but flinching  
when the lights shone in his eyes. "Clearing off a space to  
eat?" 

"Stop it! This is serious!" 

Unreasonably, his own anger flared, a reaction to being  
caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He deliberately  
flipped the folder open to a photo of the most recent victim  
and gazed up at her. "It is? Gee, Scully, thanks for setting  
me straight!" He slapped it shut and leaned back in his  
chair, arms crossed defensively over his chest. 

Scully pressed her lips so tightly together they appeared  
bloodless. She pushed the door shut with a bang and  
stalked around to the front of his desk, where she braced  
both palms on the wood and leaned forward. 

"Skinner gave you explicit instructions to stay away from  
that case, Mulder. I heard you give him your word. Did that  
mean anything to you?" 

Mulder gaped at her. Of all the accusations Scully might  
have made, she'd chosen the only one for which he had no  
defense. Rules, regulations, the chain of command... Those  
things meant nothing to him, never had. But honor, trust --  
they were the building blocks of his identity. By calling his  
integrity into question she'd bypassed the armor and gone  
for his tender underbelly. And she'd drawn blood. 

"Scully, I... Of course, it meant something to me! I just... I  
couldn't seem to get it out of my mind! I kept seeing the  
reports in the papers and on the news and it got me thinking  
and asking questions and...and I just..." 

"You’re tired of the scut work, and you figure you know  
more than me, Skinner, or the doctors, so why not do  
whatever the hell you want and just screw the rest of us! Is  
that right?" 

"NO! No, that's not right!" Mulder snapped, shoving the  
chair back and springing to his feet. "I need something,  
Scully, and I think this is it. I was bored, yes, but that's only  
a small part. I told you I have to get past what happened to  
me, to move forward -- well I can't do that creating budgets  
and reviewing policies! I kept thinking about what Skinner  
said, about how no one can get a handle on the case and  
that Jeffreys approached him, and... Five women have  
*died*, Scully! Whatever the hell else I am, I'm good at  
this -- you know that! If I can stop it from happening again,  
can save even one life... How can I hide down here and do  
nothing?" 

If anything, his words seemed to stoke her anger. "Here we  
go again! Fox Mulder, the last great hope! Single-handedly  
responsible for solving the unsolvable, for catching a  
murderer and saving countless victims, heedless of the cost  
to himself! Doesn't that God complex ever get tiresome,  
Mulder?" 

Another barb, unerringly finding its mark, and Mulder  
struggled to keep the hurt from showing. Opted for anger as  
an effective camouflage. "I told you already that I don't  
need you to take care of me, Scully. This is *my*  
decision." 

Her eyebrows lifted. "Oh really? Did it ever occur to you  
that I have my own obligation to Skinner? He made it very  
clear that you were not to be involved in an active case,  
particularly this one. He asked to be informed immediately  
if that directive was ignored." 

"He asked *me* to tell him if I was approached," Mulder  
argued stubbornly. "I haven't been. This was my own  
initiative." 

Scully threw up her hands and gazed at the ceiling in  
disbelief. "Semantics, Mulder. You *knew* the intent." She  
wandered over to sink into her chair, shaking her head. "I  
don't know what I'm more pissed off about, your total  
disregard for your health or the compromising position this  
little stunt puts me in." 

He pitched his voice low and seductive. "Scully, I've been  
wanting to put you in a compromising position for six years  
now." 

He realized humor was the wrong choice the moment the  
innuendo left his lips. Scully's eyebrows plunged and her  
hands curled into fists. 

"This is all a game to you, isn't it?" she said tightly. "Break  
the rules, manipulate the system, lie to Skinner, to me..." 

Mulder's stomach did a long, slow roll, but he couldn't tell  
if it was the headache or the disappointment on Scully's  
face. "I didn't lie," he protested weakly, slumping back into  
his own chair. 

"A lie of omission," she said, averting her eyes. "You  
waited until I left the office to pursue this, didn't you? Are  
you honestly going to tell me that you would've gone ahead  
with me present?" 

The truth in that assessment effectively doused the residual  
spark of anger, leaving only misery and regret. "I'm sorry,  
Scully. So much has happened, I... I needed to work. To  
have something else to think about, someone else to  
concentrate on. I never intended to hurt anyone, least of all  
you." 

Something in his voice pulled her eyes back from  
contemplating the stapler. The anger faded just a bit and  
she appeared to really look at him for the first time. 

"You look terrible." 

Sensing firmer ground beneath his feet, Mulder clutched at  
his heart. "Scully, you wound me! I wore this tie because I  
thought it was your favorite." 

Scully's disapproving frown was marred by a barely  
perceptible curve of her lips. "You know what I mean. Are  
you feeling all right?" 

"Just a headache -- probably from reading without my  
glasses. I'm fine," he replied, meeting her appraising gaze  
while fighting the urge to scrub at his forehead. 

The little line between her brows deepened. "You seem to  
be having an awful lot of those, Mulder. Are you sure that's  
all it is?" 

"Scully," he growled. 

She relaxed at the warning tone, smiling sheepishly. "Okay,  
okay." Sobering, she indicated the folder with a tilt of her  
head. "We haven't finished with this, Mulder." 

"Are you going to Skinner?" he asked quietly. 

She shrugged and dropped her eyes. "I have to think about  
it." 

"I've been through the folder and I've got some ideas for the  
profile..." 

Her tone sharpened. "Don't push it, Mulder." She sighed.  
"Let's see what Dr. Palermo has to say." 

Not much of a concession, but more than he deserved.  
Mulder nodded and propped his head on one hand so that  
he could unobtrusively rub his temple. 

"I'm sure you never thought of lunch while you were buried  
in those reports," Scully continued, pulling the paper bag  
closer and lifting out a carton. "Maybe some food will help  
that headache." 

The pungent aroma of meat and spices filled the air.  
Mulder swallowed hard and quickly switched to breathing  
through his mouth. "I had a snack from the vending  
machine. I'm not really hungry," he replied. 

Scully's eyes narrowed. "It's not like you to turn down Thai,  
Mulder. Sure you're not interested?" She punctuated the  
question by extending the carton so that it hovered within a  
foot of his nose. 

He couldn't avoid jerking back as if she'd offered a live  
snake, tasting bile at the back of his throat and feeling a  
cold sweat pop out on his forehead. 

"It's tempting, but I'll pass," he said, teeth clenched. 

Scully mercifully removed the container, but a moment  
later her hand, small and cool, was pressed to his forehead.  
"You were sick, weren't you, Mulder? That's why you ran  
out of here like your ass was on fire when I walked through  
the door." 

Mulder pulled back from the questing hand. "I did not," he  
said petulantly. When she folded her arms and said nothing  
he peered up at her. "Alright, maybe I did. I'm just a little  
queasy from the headache, that's all. Maybe you can save  
some and I'll have it for dinner?" 

Scully relented. "Have you taken anything?" 

Subterfuge no longer necessary, Mulder put both hands to  
work soothing the pain. "Some Tylenol. Hasn't helped  
much." 

Scully sighed again, walked over to her desk, and  
rummaged around in her purse. A moment later she pressed  
two tablets into Mulder's palm. "Here. Empirin 3's. I take  
them when I get a migraine. I'll get you a Sprite." 

Relief, gratitude, shame. Mulder curled his fingers around  
the pills and watched her walk to the door. 

"Scully?" 

She turned, one hand on the knob. 

"Thanks. I..." 

The apology -- trite and unworthy after all she'd done, all  
she continued to do -- deserted him. Somehow, though,  
Scully understood. She gave him wry but affectionate  
smile. 

"Accepted, Mulder."  
  


Alexandria  
Friday  
7:12 p.m. 

Obviously, ignoring her insistent knocking was not going  
to achieve the desired effect. 

The sledgehammer in Mulder's head picked up the beat and  
he let his eyes slip shut, the pad of his thumb absently  
stroking the fourth finger of his left hand. He was tired,  
pissed, and his head hurt like a son of a bitch. Scully was  
the last person he wanted to see right now, but he knew her  
well enough to realize he didn't have a choice. She'd put up  
with him disregarding her rapping for only so long and then  
she'd... 

A faint jingling, the grate of metal to metal, and the snick  
as his deadbolt disengaged. 

"Hey, Scully. Don't stand on ceremony. Come on in," he  
tossed sarcastically over his shoulder. 

He kept his eyes fixed on the computer screen, not really  
seeing the words he'd just typed. His ears detected her quiet  
footfalls crossing the room, his nose the subtle fragrance of  
her perfume. She stopped just behind his right shoulder and  
in his mind's eye he could picture her regarding him  
critically, evaluating the tense set of his spine, the nervous  
bouncing of his leg, the slight increase in his respiration.  
Ever the doctor, his Scully. 

When she understood that Mulder did not intend to turn  
around, Scully released a gusty sigh. "Mulder, I know  
you're angry about this afternoon..." 

"Angry?" he cut her off before she could continue, still  
showing her his back. "I'm not angry, Scully. I'm  
disappointed." 

"Bullshit." 

Scully stepped around his chair, forcing her way into his  
field of view. Contrary to the impatience in her tone, her  
face was calm. Mulder met her gaze squarely, almost  
belligerently for a moment before his eyes scooted back to  
contemplate the monitor. 

"You sold me out, Scully. Palermo would have cleared me  
for fieldwork -- I nearly had him convinced. Thanks to your  
*professional opinion* I'm benched for another week." 

Rather than rise to his bait, Scully let her eyes map the  
contours of his face, taking in the slight squint and the lines  
around his mouth. "You have another one, don't you?"  
When he remained sullen and unresponsive she pressed  
harder. "You told Palermo that the headache was gone, that  
you were feeling good. Was that a lie, Mulder?" 

His slammed both hands onto the arms of his chair and  
glared furiously at her. "NO! Why would you ask me that?  
I felt fine all afternoon -- betrayed, maybe, but fine. And  
before you ask, yes, I ate dinner tonight without any  
difficulty at all." 

"But you're having trouble now." 

Her soft statement, sympathetic rather than accusing, took  
the fight out of Mulder and his shoulders curled forward.  
"It didn't start until I sat down at the computer," he said,  
and she could see how much the admission cost him. 

Scully opened her mouth to point out that this time he was  
wearing his glasses, but swallowed the words before she  
could speak them. Though still angry, he was speaking to  
her -- a big improvement from the afternoon. He'd been so  
upset after the appointment with Palermo he'd actually  
called a cab, refusing to get into her car. 

"Go ahead, say it," Mulder growled, tugging her back from  
the silent reverie. 

"Say what?" 

"What you were going to say. What you're dying to say.  
'You're pushing too hard, Mulder,'" he mimicked bitterly.  
"'Your body is telling you to slow down and you aren't  
listening.'" 

Scully supposed she should be irritated by his  
impersonation, but found it hard since Mulder was right.  
She *was* thinking along those lines and the rebuke could  
easily have fallen from her lips. And given that just three  
weeks ago he'd been completely unresponsive and strapped  
to a hospital bed, a part of her reveled in his irascibility.  
These days, even fighting with the man seemed a precious  
gift. 

"Did you take anything?" 

He pulled off his glasses and blinked at her owlishly. "Not  
yet, Doctor. I was *trying* to get a few thoughts down first.  
Course, it's hard to concentrate when someone's beating the  
hell out of your door." 

Scully ignored the dig, pulling a small white bag from her  
pocket. "You stomped out of the clinic before Palermo  
returned with your prescription. I filled it on my way over." 

Mulder's lip thrust forward. "I did not stomp." He stood up  
and accepted the sack, fishing out the amber container and  
scanning the label. "Thanks," he mumbled, veering towards  
the kitchen. 

Scully followed, hip resting against a cabinet as she  
watched him pour water from a bottle in the refrigerator. At  
his upraised eyebrow she nodded, and he filled a second  
glass. Thrusting it silently into her hand, he slid up onto the  
counter and tossed back one of the painkillers. 

The silence stretched long between them until she rested  
one hand on his knee and looked searchingly up at him.  
"Mulder, it's not that bad. You may not be cleared for the  
field, but at least you're off the Dilantin and you can drive  
again." 

When he simply glared at her, stone faced, she turned and  
walked away, pausing in the kitchen doorway. "I'm sorry  
you're angry, Mulder," she said quietly, "but I had to be  
straight with Palermo. If I hadn't, and anything ever  
happened to you..." She let the sentence trail off, walking  
briskly to the coffee table to collect her keys. 

Mulder's hands cupped her shoulders and spun her gently  
around. He ducked his head so their eyes met, contrition in  
his to offset the hurt in her own. "I know you want what's  
best for me, Scully. But don't you think I'm more qualified  
to decide that?" 

Scully reached up to lay her hand on his cheek, tenderness  
and resignation in her smile. "Honestly, Mulder? No." 

He released his grip and stepped back at that, eyebrows  
drawing together in consternation. "What?" 

She wandered over to brace her hand on the desk chair,  
gesturing at the fledgling profile on the monitor screen.  
"You were banned from working on this case, Mulder. You  
defied Skinner's orders and wound up with a nearly  
incapacitating headache for your trouble. Yet here you are  
again, right back at it in spite of the physical repercussions.  
Would you call that someone who knows what's best for  
himself?" 

Mulder's mouth worked impotently for a moment before he  
gave up and ran fingers through his hair until it stood in  
spikes. He rubbed the back of his neck and stared at his  
bare feet for a moment before looking back up at her. 

"Would you do me a favor, Scully? Would you just listen  
to me for a few minutes? Not as my doctor, and not even as  
my friend. As my partner." 

Scully bit her lip, then nodded, feeling somehow guilty at  
the gratitude and relief that transformed his face. He sank  
into the chair and she shifted to peer over his shoulder. 

"You remember the basic facts as I outlined them this  
morning?" He plunged on, unable to hide the eagerness in  
his voice. "Something about the crime scene photos kept  
bothering me, and I finally realized what it was. All of the  
women's bodies showed visible evidence of their  
pregnancies -- additional weight, fullness in the face, and  
even some swelling of the ankles in one case." 

When he paused, looking up at her expectantly, Scully  
frowned. "So?" 

"So that means that the pregnancy had progressed, probably  
into the second trimester. I made some phone calls to the  
clinics and discovered that in each case the abortion had  
been scheduled only after the mothers received test results  
indicating a genetic abnormality." 

"What kind of abnormality?" 

Mulder's hand crept up to massage his forehead. "Three  
cases of Down's Syndrome and two of Spina Bifida." 

Scully tapped her lip with her index finger. "It does seem  
significant." 

"It has to be more than coincidence, Scully! The normal  
percentage of genetic abnormalities is... is..." Mulder's face  
contorted and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut against a  
sharp burst of pain. 

"Mulder?" 

He waved her off, panting a little but continuing. "Anyway,  
I think it's worth checking out the labs that processed the  
test results." 

Scully watched him grimace again, took in the agitated  
movement of thumb brushing finger, the light sheen of  
sweat on his brow. "I agree." 

"There's more. I was interested to learn that this was a first  
pregnancy for each of the victims -- not unusual for a  
twenty-one-year-old like Nicole Eddings, but definitely out  
of the ordinary for someone pushing forty like Elizabeth  
Brentwood. It may have no significance at all, but once  
again, it’s worth keeping in mind." 

His eyes lost focus and he began speaking more to himself  
than to Scully. "I need to understand what's driving the  
UNSUB. The working profile the police are using is all  
wrong. They’re looking for a cold, brutal killer, someone  
with a complete disregard for the sanctity of human life. I  
disagree. There's no sign of gratuitous violence here. The  
only cuts on the bodies are those that were necessary to  
remove the baby. Blood tests show a sedative, though not  
enough to cause the victim to lose consciousness. He drugs  
them and removes the fetus with a minimal amount of  
physical trauma." Mulder's smooth tenor became strained,  
each word forced. "The m...mother is then simply left to  
bleed out, and the UNSUB leaves with the fetus." 

He propped his elbows on the desktop and dropped head  
into hands, thumbs moving over his temples in hard little  
circles. "He's dispassionate, emotions under t...tight control.  
The murders are necessary, a task that must be performed  
but n-not enjoyed. He's p-precise, c...cl...clinical, and he  
could b...be, could b...be..." 

He nearly plowed Scully over in a headlong dash for the  
bathroom. She listened to him be noisily sick for several  
minutes before heaving a sigh and following. 

Mulder spat twice in a pitiful attempt to clear the foul taste  
from his mouth, leaned over to flush the toilet and hauled  
himself up on wobbly colt's legs. He snagged his  
toothbrush from its holder and the paste from the medicine  
chest, ignoring trembling fingers. Scully leaned in the  
doorway, worry and disapproval vying for dominance on  
her face as he eyed her in the mirror while he brushed  
. 

"You okay?" 

He pulled the brush from his mouth and bared his teeth in a  
foamy and insincere smile. "Just peachy." 

Scully rolled her eyes and retreated, leaving him to finish in  
relative peace. Mulder drew himself a tumbler of water,  
startled when her hand materialized under his chin, another  
pill in her palm. He eyed it distastefully, making no move  
to accept the offering. 

"Two's going to make me fuzzy." 

"Oh for God's sake, Mulder, you just spent the last five  
minutes throwing up your toenails! Take the damn pill!" 

Stubborn, but not stupid, Mulder recognized that he'd just  
run out of rope. He meekly accepted the capsule and  
washed it down, rode out a smaller wave of nausea, and  
decided it would stay in place. He wandered over to his  
couch, unable to suppress a soft grunt of relief once the  
familiar leather cushions cradled his aching head. Scully  
perched on the coffee table, her knees just brushing his. 

Mulder flung one arm over his eyes, a shield to the light  
and Scully's probing stare. "You going to out me to  
Skinner?" 

He didn't need to see her face; the disbelief colored her  
voice. "You intend to continue? Mulder, can't you see what  
this is doing to you already? It's only going to get worse!  
How much more do you think you can take before you  
wind up hospitalized?" 

"I hope you're referring to medical treatment and not five  
point restraints," he replied, one eye peeking out from the  
crook of his elbow. 

Scully dug her tongue into her cheek -- annoyed, not  
amused. "Once again, Mulder. Not funny." 

Mulder dropped his arm and sat forward. "You're right. It  
isn't funny. Five women are dead, Scully. I can stop it, I  
know I can." 

"Can you honestly tell me that you think you're physically  
capable of handling this case?" Scully demanded. 

"Were you listening to me tonight? Can you honestly deny  
that I'm needed? Scully, they're stalled, at a complete  
standstill. I've made more headway in the last six hours  
than they've made in the last six months! I'm not capable of  
making any other choice." 

She sighed and slipped her hands over his restless fingers,  
tilting her head back to regard his face. She read no  
arrogance, no bravado, in spite of the words. Just iron  
determination and a plea for her support. Almost seven  
years now, and in some ways she'd grown to know this man  
better than she knew herself. 

In others, he would always remain a mystery. 

For better or worse, come hell, high water, or Skinner,  
Mulder would pursue this case to its conclusion. Nothing  
short of a bullet or those five point restraints could stop him  
now. Like a driverless car careening downhill at full speed,  
he'd only gain momentum. Her options were twofold --  
stand in the road and be run down, or hop aboard and try to  
steer. 

Maybe even judiciously apply the brakes when necessary. 

"Okay," she acquiesced. She quickly lifted her hand, palm  
out, to freeze his smile. "On my terms." 

Wariness replacing triumph, she could feel him stiffen. 

"Go on." 

"You stick to profiling. That means deskwork, not  
legwork." 

Mulder scowled. "What if I need to follow up a piece of  
information? Or to interview someone?" 

"If you need a lead run down you get me or one of the  
other agents on the case to take care of it. If you need an  
interview, you conduct it over the phone or at the Bureau,"  
Scully's reply was smooth and hard as steel. 

Mulder withdrew his hands and slumped back on the  
couch. "Okay," he sulked. "What else?" 

"You call Skinner first thing tomorrow morning to confess  
what a naughty boy you've been and to update him on your  
progress." 

"Are you crazy? You want me to out *myself* to Skinner?"  


"That's the idea," Scully said calmly. 

"Scully, he'll not only chew my ass for ignoring his  
directive, he'll forbid me from continuing!" Mulder whined. 

"You underestimate the power of my promise to keep you  
in line, Mulder," she replied, a smirk turning up the corners  
of her mouth. "He'll come around." 

Mulder opened his mouth to argue, but snapped it shut and  
nodded instead. "Is that it?" he asked unhappily. 

"Just one more," Scully said gently. "I will not stand back  
and let you sacrifice yourself. Not for the victims, and  
certainly not for the UNSUB. If I think you've crossed the  
line, if I believe for one minute that you're jeopardizing  
your health, I will go to Skinner and convince him to pull  
the plug. I’ll make sure you’re hospitalized, suspended –  
anything to keep you from continuing. I can live with your  
anger, Mulder. What I can't live with is the knowledge that  
I stood by and let you self destruct." 

Mulder's hard gaze softened, the resentment melting under  
her warmth and affection. "I'll try not to give you either  
one. You drive a hard bargain, G-woman, but you've got a  
deal." 

Scully shook her head ruefully, rising to her feet. "If I drive  
such a hard bargain, why do I get the feeling I've been  
snookered?" she asked wryly. 

Evidently the second pill had kicked in. Mulder's eyes were  
heavy-lidded, the hazel dominated by oversized pupils.  
"Guess I coulda sold a few boxes myself, huh Scully?" 

It took a moment to make the connection. Scully struggled  
against the grin, heading for the door. "Maybe so, Mulder.  
But the real question is, how would you have looked in the  
skirt?"  
  


A. D. Skinner's Office  
Saturday  
9:03 am 

Skinner finished reading a sheet of Mulder's handwritten  
notes and set it aside, flipping slowly back through the  
photos and finally closing the folder. The palm of one hand  
smoothed the manila surface while the fingers of the other  
drummed against the blotter, his jaw clamped tightly shut.  
The angle of his head and the reflection of light off his  
glasses conspired to lend him an air of inscrutability that  
defied Mulder's best attempts to discern his mood. 

Mulder smoothed an invisible piece of lint from his tie,  
willing himself not to fidget. Sitting on this side of the  
massive mahogany desk, delivering news he was certain  
Skinner wouldn't want to hear, remained an unpleasant,  
though certainly not unfamiliar experience. He hated  
feeling like a recalcitrant ten-year-old sent to the principal's  
office to give account for his errant behavior, Mom in tow.  
He snatched a quick sideways glance at his partner, not  
sure whether to be reassured or annoyed by her patience  
and attentiveness as she awaited their supervisor’s  
response. 

When Skinner finally raised his eyes from the file it was to  
pin Mulder with an icy stare. When he spoke, his voice was  
low and dangerously mild. 

"Agent Mulder, do you recall our conversation about this  
case?" 

Mulder licked his lips, fighting the urge to evade Skinner's  
eyes. "Yes, sir." 

"Did I fail to communicate my directive regarding your  
participation in the case, in any capacity?" 

"No, sir." 

Skinner planted his elbows on the desk and leaned forward,  
giving Mulder the uncomfortable impression of a mouse  
being stalked by a cat. "Did I leave you with the  
misconception that your capitulation with that directive was  
optional?" 

Tendrils of resentment and rebellion entwined with the  
honest regret he felt, tainting it. "No, sir. You were  
perfectly clear," he replied sullenly. 

Skinner leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his  
chin but gaze never breaking from Mulder's face. "So what  
you're saying is that you were willfully insubordinate." 

Mulder's eyebrows plunged. "I just... I knew that if I..." He  
folded his arms across his chest. "Yes, sir." 

Skinner retrieved Mulder's notes and let his eyes wander up  
and down the page, one thumb stroking his jawline. Mulder  
chewed the inside of his cheek, the resentment expanding  
within him like a hot air balloon until it burst. 

"I realize that I ignored your instructions to steer clear of  
this case. But you can't deny that I've made progress. I've  
uncovered some leads worth pursuing and developed some  
insights into the UNSUB. You and I both know the team  
has just been spinning its wheels for months. I've begun to  
construct a profile, and I intend to finish it. So if you're  
planning to suspend me, *sir*, just get it over with and put  
us both out of our misery." 

Mulder felt the daggers of Scully's eyes but stubbornly  
refused to acknowledge them. Skinner, who had kept his  
gaze on the paper throughout Mulder's tirade, met his  
challenging glare coolly. 

"A lot of people besides Bill Patterson were sorry to see  
you leave VICAP, Mulder. Myself included. I don't dispute  
the talent, just the cost." 

The concern, rather than the expected anger, completely  
bypassed Mulder's defenses and he floundered for a reply. 

"I'm fine, sir. I can do this." 

Irritation seeped back into Skinner's face. He turned to  
Scully, who stiffened under his scrutiny. 

"Agent Scully, I know you've kept in contact with Agent  
Mulder's physician. What is his current physical status? In  
your professional opinion, is he capable of undertaking this  
assignment?" 

Mulder shifted slightly in his seat so that he could see her  
face. Her blue eyes flicked briefly toward him before  
locking onto their boss. She sucked in a deep breath and  
cleared her throat. 

"Agent Mulder had a follow-up visit with his neurologist  
yesterday and everything appeared to be healing normally.  
Dr. Palermo took him off the Dilantin and lifted the driving  
restriction." She hesitated, then continued. "He did suggest  
that Agent Mulder confine himself to desk duty for an  
additional week, mainly as a precaution." 

Skinner absorbed her words, studying her facial expression  
carefully. "Thank you for the update, Scully, but you  
haven't answered my question. Do you recommend that  
Agent Mulder be allowed to continue working on this  
case?" 

Scully's eyes darted to Mulder's once more, the warning  
clear. *Don't make me regret this* 

"I don't see any reason why Agent Mulder can't continue to  
work on the profile and participate in the investigation,  
provided he respects his limitations and doesn't overdo." 

"That's the real issue, isn't it?" Skinner sighed, rubbing the  
bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. "All right. I'll  
notify SAC Jeffreys that you both have joined the team. I  
expect you to keep us informed of your progress. And  
Mulder..." Skinner's eyes narrowed and he pointed a finger  
for emphasis. "Just because I'm choosing to ignore this (he  
waved the sheet of notes) blatant disregard for orders  
doesn't mean I won't step in if I think for one minute that  
you're abusing this agreement. You are still restricted from  
venturing into the field and you will keep reasonable hours.  
If I hear from Agent Scully that you aren't eating or  
sleeping to her satisfaction you'll be off this case so fast  
you won't know what hit you." He leaned closer with a  
predatory smile. "I hear SAC Burgess in Wiretapping is  
short a few bodies. I'm sure he'd be eager for the help." 

Mulder blanched at the image Skinner's threat conjured.  
Reassuming his mask of indifference, he nodded. The  
important thing was that he'd been cleared to complete the  
profile. He felt confident that he could work around Scully. 

As if she could sense his thoughts, Scully suddenly turned  
so that her eyes bore into his. "Don't worry, sir," she said,  
her voice deceptively calm. "If it comes to that, I'll call  
SAC Burgess myself."  
  


South Suburban Clinic  
Saturday  
11:14 a.m.  
  


Scully crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt, glancing  
out the window. A beautiful Saturday, temperature a little  
cool but plenty of sunshine in a clear blue sky. A day for  
strolling the mall, window shopping, maybe even a drive to  
Baltimore to visit Mom. The last place she wanted to be  
was a stuffy little clinic, waiting to speak to Elizabeth  
Brentwood's doctor. 

*You owe me for this, Mulder. Big time.* 

"Agent Scully?" 

Scully stood, pasting on a smile and extending her hand.  
"Dr. Lathrop. Thank you for seeing me." 

Dr. Lathrop was cartoonishly tall and thin, his skin  
stretched tight over the bones of his angular face. His dark  
eyes were deep set but kind, and his answering smile  
transformed his features from dour to pleasant. 

"I'm not sure I can add anything to the statements I've  
already given, Agent Scully, but I'm certainly willing to  
try." The smile winked out of existence and his face  
darkened. "These murders have cast a pall over this clinic  
that has affected us all -- doctors, technicians, and certainly  
patients. This lunatic has got to be stopped." 

He gestured for her to follow him down a long corridor and  
into a spacious office filled with books and plants. Scully  
accepted the proffered chair, grateful for the softness of the  
cushions after the hard plastic of her waiting room seat.  
Lathrop surprised her by collecting a folder from the  
desktop and sinking into the companion chair in front of his  
desk. 

"This is Elizabeth Brentwood's file," he said grimly,  
"though there's not much for you to see. She came to me  
strictly for the abortion; her OB and all her prenatal testing  
were from a different clinic. I performed the obligatory pre-  
exam and ran some blood work. She was murdered less  
than twenty-four hours before the scheduled procedure." 

Scully accepted the file folder and flipped through it as she  
listened to Dr. Lathrop. "Did she confide in you the reason  
she'd decided to abort?" 

"Frankly, Agent Scully, that's none of my business. I don't  
make it a practice to pry into my patient's personal lives,  
nor would I betray any confidences they might share.  
Abortion is an extremely emotional decision and I would  
never presume to question the patient's right to make this  
choice." 

The cool, barely concealed anger in Lathrop's tone pulled  
Scully's eyes from the file to study his tense, slightly  
flushed face. 

"I understand patient confidentiality, I'm a doctor myself. I  
assure you I didn't mean to call Mrs. Brentwood's decision  
into question, doctor. I'm just trying to establish areas of  
commonality between victims." 

Lathrop refused to be mollified. "Perhaps. But I can't help  
but sense disapproval in the question. We both know this is  
an extremely volatile and controversial issue, and many  
people have a hard time maintaining an unbiased attitude.  
Would *you* ever consider abortion, Agent Scully?" 

Somehow, she managed to keep her professional mask  
intact, though Lathrop's question, uttered with more than a  
trace of sarcasm, pierced the most fragile portion of her  
soul. Closing the folder she set it back on the desk, the  
simple mechanics allowing her to catch her emotional  
breath. 

"This interview isn't about me, Dr. Lathrop," she answered  
quietly. "But I will tell you that since I am unable to  
conceive a child, I will never be faced with such a  
decision." 

Scully was proud that her voice remained level, pleased to  
see Lathrop squirm at her response. Neither feeling,  
however, assuaged the dull ache somewhere between her  
stomach and her heart. 

"I'm sorry, Agent Scully. Please forgive my impertinence,"  
he said, the remorse on his face genuine. "I'm afraid it's  
difficult not to become rather thin skinned in this  
profession. Passions run high, and there's a lot of hate out  
there." 

"Do you receive many threats?" 

Lathrop shrugged. "What constitutes many? The clinic has  
certainly borne its share of negative publicity. The Right to  
Life groups picket us periodically, try to get patients to  
change their minds." 

"But has anyone ever crossed the line? Openly threatened  
.harm for you, your staff, or the patients?" 

Dr. Lathrop scowled. "There's only one man I've ever  
feared would follow through with his words." 

Scully leaned forward. "Go on." 

"His name is Ike Dalton. He's a genuine crazy -- even the  
Right to Life groups won't have anything to do with him.  
He's vandalized the clinic on more than one occasion and  
openly threatened the doctors and nurses. I honestly  
wouldn't put it past him to do something like this, but." 

"But?" 

"We were able to file a restraining order on him about a  
month ago to keep him off the property. Haven't seen or  
heard from him since." 

Scully jotted the name down on the small spiral notepad  
she kept in her jacket pocket, then stood and offered her  
hand. 

"Thank you for your time, Dr. Lathrop. You've been very  
helpful."  


Lathrop's hand was dry and smooth, his expression  
relieved. "As I said, Agent Scully, I'm only too glad to  
help. I just hope you catch the killer soon." 

"As do we," Scully murmured, following him back to the  
lounge area. 

Lathrop paused, contrition back on his face. "I apologize  
again for my harsh words earlier," he said. "As a doctor I'm  
sure you realize that some patients get under your skin  
more than others. Elizabeth Brentwood was one of those  
for me. You might be interested to know that she had been  
attempting to have a child for many years. This was to have  
been her miracle baby. She was devastated when the Alpha  
Fetal Protein indicated Spina Bifida, and she and did not  
reach the decision to abort easily." 

He shook his head sadly. "So many from both sides see this  
as a black and white issue, Agent Scully. Truth is, there's  
an amazing amount of gray." 

Stepping out into the crisp autumn air, Scully couldn't seem  
to shake the oppression of the clinic and Lathrop's words.  
She leaned against her car and turned her face to the sun for  
several minutes before pulling out her cell phone. 

"Mulder." 

His voice was tense, distracted, with just an edge of  
annoyance, a clear indication that he'd been deep in the  
profile. 

"Mulder, it's me. I just finished speaking with Elizabeth  
Brentwood's doctor and I'm heading out to the clinic where  
Janet Garson and Eve Roberts were patients." 

"Did you find out anything new?" The irritability vanished  
and his voice softened. Scully smiled, warmed by the  
knowledge that her voice had provoked the change. 

"Not much. That a man named Ike Dalton has a history of  
vandalism against the clinic. And that Dr. Lathrop can be a  
bit touchy on the subject of his chosen profession," she  
said, screwing up her face at the memory. 

He chuckled softly. "Guess it's just as well you handled the  
interview, Scully. I'm not exactly known for my tact." 

She rolled her eyes, even though he couldn't see. "Big  
revelation there, Mulder." 

"Anything else?" 

Lathrop's disclosure of Elizabeth Brentwood's infertility  
crossed her mind, but since it had no bearing on the case  
she decided not to mention it. Mulder would only vacillate  
between worry over her mental state and his own guilt,  
both unwelcome emotions. 

"'Fraid not. How's the profile coming?" 

She could almost hear him grimace. "Slow." 

Scully knew him too well not to hear the undercurrent.  
"Headache?" 

"Scully, I'm fine. Don't let me keep you from that  
interview." Defensive. Dismissive. 

She deliberated only a moment before letting it go. "I'll see  
you back at your place when I'm done. You're buying  
dinner." 

Amusement displaced the guardedness. "I am, huh?" 

"Definitely. The way I see it, I'm worth egg drop soup,  
shrimp fried rice, and an eggroll. From Bamboo Garden." 

Ripe with affection rather than humor, his reply took her by  
surprise. "You're worth more than that, Scully. Much, much  
more."  
  


Alexandria  
Saturday  
6:43 p.m.  
  


Warm air and the spicy aroma of Kung Pao Chicken drifted  
through the open door. Scully pocketed her keys and  
stepped inside, letting the door snick closed at her back. 

"Mulder?" 

No answer, so she moved into the kitchen. Two brown bags  
emblazoned with the logo from Bamboo Garden sat on the  
counter, unopened. She pressed her fingers to the paper,  
frowning a little at the lack of warmth. He'd obviously  
ordered the food some time ago -- why hadn't he unpacked  
it or put it in the oven to stay warm? 

"Mulder? You here?" 

Cold fingers of unease skittered up and down her spine.  
Scully moved into the living room, investigator's eyes  
taking over. The computer was on, still logged onto the  
Net. She peered at the screen, a web page on genetic  
testing, specifically the Alpha Fetal Protein test. Frown  
deepening, she grasped the mouse and logged off. The  
ever-present yellow pad sat to the right of the monitor, an  
uncapped pen lying on top. A half-filled mug of liquid, now  
stone cold. Scully sniffed -- chamomile. Her eyes  
narrowed. How many cups had he brewed for her during  
her cancer to ease nausea from the chemotherapy? Mulder  
was a caffeine and sugar kind of guy. If he'd switched to  
tea, there was a definite reason. 

She turned, gaze sweeping over the empty couch to rest on  
the bedroom door, hanging slightly ajar. She walked  
quickly over but hesitated once her fingers touched the  
wood. 

"Mulder, it's me," she called softly, then pushed gently. 

The room was shrouded in near total darkness, blinds  
drawn and lamps off. A swatch of light from the living  
room spilled over the foot of the bed to illuminate Mulder,  
sprawled in a loose tangle of long limbs atop the comforter,  
face slack in slumber. A glass of water and the bottle of  
painkillers, cap off, sat on his nightstand. Scully's eyes  
crinkled in amusement. Mulder had a terrible time  
manipulating childproof caps, a fact she found endearing. 

Moving cautiously to the side of the bed, she watched him  
sleep for a moment, trying not to admit to herself how  
much pleasure she derived from the simple act. An image  
of him strapped down and defenseless, the marks of  
Cancerman's violation fresh on his pale skin, appeared  
before her with such clarity she felt her eyes burn. He'd  
come back to her, but changed. Like metal refined by the  
fire, strengthened in his resolve and his purpose. Not that  
he was alone -- the experience with the etching and  
Mulder's illness had irrevocably left its mark on her. And,  
perhaps more importantly, left its mark on their  
relationship. The difference crackled in the air between  
them, she could see it in the warmth of his gaze, hear it in  
the cadence of his voice. And, God help her, she could feel  
it in the suddenly irrepressible smile on her lips. 

They were poised on the precipice, and she sensed Mulder  
waiting patiently for her to jump. She hadn't quite gathered  
the courage yet, but she was close. Very close. Her feet  
might not have left the ground, but her toes were hanging  
off the edge... 

Giving herself a mental shake Scully sat carefully on the  
edge of the bed, mindful of Mulder's hair-trigger reflexes.  
He didn't awaken, however, just mumbled something  
unintelligible while his right hand moved restlessly as if  
searching for something. 

*Probably dreaming he lost his gun.* 

Scully smirked at the thought even as she gave his shoulder  
a gentle shake. 

"Mulder, it's me. Wake up, I'm starving." 

His eyes fluttered open and stared at her blankly for a  
moment before comprehension seeped in. He propped  
himself up on his elbows and ran one hand over his face,  
squinting in the light. 

"Timizzit?" 

Two pills, not one. Mulder hadn't been exaggerating when  
he said they made him fuzzy. 

"Six o'clock." She couldn't seem to control the hand that  
touched the back of its fingers to his forehead and then  
brushed back a spiky strand of hair. 

Chagrined, she stood quickly and turned back toward the  
door, hearing the rustling sound of Mulder swinging his  
legs off the side of the bed, then the popping of tendons as  
he stretched. 

"I picked up the food around five," he said, following her  
back to the kitchen. "Sorry -- guess we'll have to nuke it." 

Scully shrugged, pulling plates from the cupboard and  
sniffing appreciatively as he opened the carton of fried rice.  
She took in the slight tremor of the hand that spooned some  
onto her plate, nibbling on her lip to keep from  
commenting. 

"What good is the miracle of modern technology if you  
never use it?" she said lightly. 

"Spoken like a true scientist," Mulder replied, grinning as  
he popped her plate in the microwave and then prepared his  
own. 

They stood in silence but for the hum of the oven, Mulder  
slouching comfortably against the counter while Scully  
stared sightlessly at the rotating plate through the little  
window. Finally she could stand it no longer. 

"It must have been bad if you broke down and took two of  
those pills," she said, never breaking eye contact with her  
revolving rice. 

To her amazement, Mulder chuckled. "I wondered how  
long you'd last. I could see how it was killing you not to  
bring it up." He leaned over to insinuate his face between  
hers and the microwave. "Go ahead, Scully. Come right out  
and ask me -- you know you want to." 

Only the playfully affectionate tone to his voice kept her  
from smacking him. "Okay, Mulder. How ba..." 

"Very bad. On a scale from one to ten I'd give it a nine," he  
cut in, smiling smugly. 

She folded her arms, pursing her lips. "And did you..." 

"Nope. No instances of tossing my cookies. Blowing  
chunks. Worshipping the porcelain god." 

"Mulderrrr." 

He desisted, though mischief still sparkled in his eyes. "Not  
that I didn't come close." 

Scully shot him a longsuffering glare. "How do you..." 

"Great. Never better. And I'm starving." 

Scully sent him her most dangerous scowl. "You know,  
Mulder, sometimes you can be a real..." 

BEEEEP 

"Your food's ready, Scully. Why don't you take it in by the  
coffee table and I'll bring your soup," Mulder said brightly. 

Settled on his couch, the rice melting in her mouth, Scully  
allowed herself a smile. Hard not to be won over by Mulder  
in a good mood. It was almost enough to make her forget  
her worry over the fact that his headaches, rather than  
disappearing, had increased in frequency and intensity. 

Almost. 

Mulder deposited a Styrofoam container of hot soup in  
front of her, then returned to fetch his own food from the  
kitchen. When he'd seated himself on the floor across from  
her, legs folded pretzel-like, his expression turned serious. 

"Bring me up to speed, Scully. What did you find out?" 

Scully blew gently on her soup before putting the spoon  
into her mouth, thinking. 

"The most obvious, I guess, would be that our friend Ike  
Dalton has vandalized and generally harassed the staff at all  
three clinics. In fact, two out of three have filed restraining  
orders to keep him away. This is not your average Right to  
Lifer, Mulder. At the very least the man has poor impulse  
control, if not downright psychotic tendencies. At the  
moment he's the police's number one suspect." 

Mulder took a bite of chicken and chewed slowly, his eyes  
far away. He shook his head. "Uh-uh." 

Scully leaned forward, brow creased in annoyance.  
"What?" 

"He's not the one, Scully," Mulder replied dismissively.  
"What else do you have?" 

Scully could feel her fingers curling into fists, consciously  
flexed them. "Do you mind sharing with me how you can  
reject Dalton so easily? Have you heard some of the things  
the man has done? Read what he said to the police when  
they questioned him?" She congratulated herself on her  
own impulse control -- Mulder could have wound up  
wearing her soup.  
  


"As a matter of fact, I have read the interview, Scully. It  
doesn't mean anything," Mulder said, using the patient tone  
that made her want to scream. 

"It doesn't mean anything? Mulder, he threatened to  
eviscerate the doctors! You don't think that's significant?" 

Mulder looked at her a little blankly and his thumb began  
the familiar motion over his finger. "Scully, the guy is a  
nutcase, there's no doubt about it. But he doesn't fit the  
profile. In fact, he's about as far from the profile as you can  
get. He's enraged, irrational. I'm not saying he isn't capable  
of murder. But I guarantee that he wouldn't confine himself  
to the methodical cutting we've got here. And he'd never  
use drugs, he'd want her to feel every slice." 

Scully blanched at his cool recitation. It was always  
disconcerting to hear someone as inherently empathetic as  
Mulder discuss brutal crimes with such detachment.  
Though she recognized the defense mechanism, it still  
bothered her. Mulder continued, oblivious to her  
discomfort. 

"Our guy is a professional, someone who knows what he's  
doing. Could even be a doctor, a veterinarian. He's  
comfortable wielding the knife, unaffected by the blood,  
the mess." His leaned an elbow on his knee and dropped  
head into hand, fingers scrubbing the flesh just above his  
eyebrows. "He doesn't hate them, probably even feels he's  
helping them in some warped way. He believes in what he's  
doing, Scully." He sighed. "What else? You mentioned the  
doctor at South Suburban was pretty defensive. Did he give  
you a hard time?" 

Scully kept her eyes on her soup. "He accused me of  
showing disapproval for Elizabeth Brentwood's choice to  
abort. After a bit he calmed down and apologized." 

Mulder raised his head, scrutinizing her face. "Scully, I  
hope you'll tell me if you have trouble with this case. It's  
understandable that it might push some buttons for you." 

She looked up, eyes hard. "Why, Mulder? Because I'm  
Catholic, or because I'm infertile?" 

His jaw tightened and he glanced away. "I'm not worried  
you'd act unprofessionally or fail to do your job, Scully," he  
said softly. "Quite the opposite. I'm worried you'd continue  
to do the job, even if it was killing you." 

Scully's expression was incredulous. "Said the pot!" 

Mulder's jaw dropped, then snapped shut. "Guilty," he said  
ruefully, then wriggled his eyebrows. "I throw myself on  
the mercy of the court." 

Scully snorted, but the flint left her eyes. "Mulder, I'm fine.  
Yes, as a Catholic I have to admit that I find the idea of  
abortion repugnant. And I'd be lying if I said it didn't hurt  
to know that women are terminating their pregnancies  
when I'd give my right arm to be in their shoes. But none of  
that really matters, does it? What matters is that we catch  
whoever is perpetrating these horrendous crimes and put  
him someplace where he can't hurt anymore women. That's  
my job, and I intend to do it." 

Mulder reached across the coffee table to squeeze her hand,  
then nodded. "Okay. Anything else turn up at the clinics?" 

"I stumbled onto something very interesting when I was at  
Dreyer Medical Clinic," she replied, excitement driving  
away her tension. 

"That's the one for both Eve Roberts and Corrie Jenkins?" 

Scully nodded. "During my interview with the doctor he  
mentioned that both Eve and Corrie had undergone genetic  
counseling at Copley Hospital after receiving their test  
results. I made a few calls and guess what?" 

Mulder's head returned to the cradle of his left hand,  
pressing the heel hard against his temple. "All the women  
received counseling there?" 

"Not only that, all five spoke to the same counselor! A  
woman by the name of Miriam Richardson." 

Mulder's brows drew together and the motion of his thumb  
quickened. "A woman?" he muttered absently. "It would  
explain a lot of things. Th...the precision, the n...neatness of  
the scene. The alm...most gentle approach t...to the  
m...murders. Even the a...absence of a struggle. A  
w...woman would be m...more likely t...t...to trust another  
woman." 

When he began to stutter, Scully dropped her spoon and  
reached over to snag his arm. "Mulder, stop. You're going  
to make yourself sick." 

He shrugged her hand off impatiently, though his eyes were  
reduced to mere slits from the pain. "They have the  
p...preliminary test, the Alpha F...Fetal Protein, at the  
re...recommendation of their OBs. Then, w...when the  
r...results are positive there's an amniocentesis. Right,  
Sc...Scully?" 

"Yes, that's right," Scully snapped, shoving her plate aside  
and standing. "We'll talk about this later, Mulder, I want  
you to lie down. *Now.*" 

Mulder ignored her, wincing at a particularly sharp stab of  
pain and swiping distractedly at the beads of perspiration  
on his upper lip with his index finger. "I'll j...just bet you  
th...those amnios were d...done at Copley, Scully. Sh...she  
could h...have access to the r...results and...and..." 

At his low cry of pain Scully darted around the table but  
she wasn't quite fast enough. Mulder's eyes rolled back in  
his head and he tumbled to the floor, muscles twitching in  
small spasms eerily reminiscent of the seizures he'd  
experienced as a result of Goldstein's treatments. 

"Mulder!" 

She sank to her knees, barely refraining from touching him  
until his body went completely boneless. Blinking hard, she  
cupped his jaw, her thumb caressing his cheek. 

"Mulder, come back to me now," she murmured, hating the  
tremor in her voice. "Come on, partner, wake up." 

To her immense relief his eyelids quivered and then slipped  
open, though his gaze was vague and unfocused. "Scully?"  
he rasped. 

The fact that he didn't immediately try to get up bothered  
her almost as much as whatever clonic event he'd just had.  
"I'm right here, Mulder. Just take it easy and lie still,  
okay?" 

"Wha..." 

The word trailed off to a moan, his whole body tensing  
with agony, his breath coming in rapid pants. "H...hurts.  
Wha's happening?" 

Scully shushed him, her fingers smoothing back his sweaty  
hair. "I don't know, Mulder. But I think it's past time we  
found out."  
  


Georgetown Medical  
Saturday  
11:52 p.m.  
  


Scully hopped to her feet and strode quickly across the  
waiting area. The nurse, a middle-aged woman with curly  
brown hair and a nametag identifying her as Donna,  
maneuvered Mulder's wheelchair back into the cubicle and  
parked it beside the gurney. 

"All right, Mulder, up you go," she said, nodding to  
acknowledge the hovering Scully. 

Mulder, who had been splayed in the chair with his head  
propped on one fist, got unsteadily to his feet and placidly  
allowed her to situate him on the bed. 

"Thanks for the lift, Donna. You can drive me anytime," he  
said, the words slurring lazily on his tongue and a loopy  
grin on his face. 

Donna gave Mulder's arm an affectionate squeeze and  
Scully a surreptitious wink. "My pleasure, hon. Just rest  
now and the doctor will be with you in a bit." 

Scully took one look at her partner's eyes, lids already  
sliding down to shroud dilated pupils, and plucked Donna's  
elbow as she passed. 

"What did you give him?" she asked bluntly, keeping her  
voice low. "He left here for a CAT scan, why does he look  
like a refugee from a Grateful Dead concert?" 

Donna smiled and patted Scully's fingers reassuringly.  
"Doctor Palermo ordered a pretty stiff shot of Dilantin to be  
administered once the scan was completed. Coupled with  
the Demerol it packs a pretty powerful punch. Don't worry  
\-- he'll sleep it off once you get him home tonight and be  
back to normal in the morning." 

"Hey, Scully, c'mere. 'S a stain on the ceiling tha' looks jus'  
like Fluky!" 

Scully rolled her eyes but the corners of her mouth  
twitched. "You did say *sleep*, didn't you?" 

Donna chuckled and looked over to where Mulder was  
lying, glassy-eyed, with his head cranked back.  
"Personally, Honey, if I were taking *that* home, sleep  
would be the farthest thing from my mind! Doctor Palermo  
will be in shortly with the test results." 

Scully stood, slack-jawed and pink-cheeked while Donna  
collected the wheelchair and left the room, still chortling  
softly to herself. Shaking her head bemusedly, she walked  
over to her partner's side. He'd ceased his contemplation of  
the ceiling and was sorting through his keys, tongue  
protruding from the corner of his mouth and nearly cross-  
eyed with concentration as he tried to manipulate clumsy  
fingers. 

"Mulder, what do you think you're doing?" 

His gaze meandered to her face and he blinked, processing  
her question. "Les get outta here, Scully, I feel fine. I'll  
drive." 

Scully pursed her lips to camouflage the grin. Nothing riled  
Mulder more than the idea you weren't taking him  
seriously. "Sorry, G-man. I'm afraid you're grounded.  
Besides, we have to talk to Dr. Palermo, remember?" 

Mulder's face twisted into a stubborn pout, complete with  
protruding lip. "Don't need Palermo, Scully. I'm tellin' ya, I  
feel really good!" 

"That's because you're stoned, Mulder." 

He affected a shocked expression, all wide-eyed innocence.  
"I am?" When Scully nodded he looked at her slyly from  
beneath his lashes. "Wanna take advantage of me?" 

Scully pocketed his keys. "No, but I think Donna might  
take you up on that offer." 

Mulder allowed his head to drop back onto the pillow with  
a small yawn. "Donna likes me," he pronounced with  
satisfaction. "She said 'm very catip...capti...very  
charming." 

Scully's lips curved. "You have your moments. Now just sit  
tight for a few more minutes until Palermo gets here and I  
promise we'll go home. And *I'll* drive, Mulder." 

He yawned again, giving her a heavy-lidded smirk. "Sure  
those lil feet can reach the pedals?" 

She pulled over a chair and sank into it. "I'll manage," she  
replied dryly. 

By the time the doctor stepped into the room ten minutes  
later Scully had kicked off her shoes and Mulder was  
snoring softly and drooling on the pillow. Palermo regarded  
him quizzically for a moment before turning to Scully. 

"How's he doing?" 

She slipped on her loafers and stood, arching one eyebrow.  
"Feeling no pain, for the moment," she said with a wry  
grin. 

"And, for once, the picture of cooperation," he observed,  
deadpan. 

Scully chuffed quiet laughter, pleased to realize that she  
genuinely liked Dr. Palermo. Frantic over Mulder's  
mysterious brain surgery, his calm, professional demeanor  
and willingness to treat her as a colleague had assuaged her  
feelings of helplessness and eased her fears. But what had  
really won her over (in addition to a thorough background  
check by the Gunmen) had been his skillful handling of her  
frequently cantankerous partner, with patience and dry  
humor. 

"I have the analysis of the CAT scan," Palermo continued.  
"Shall we have the guest of honor join the party?" 

"The guest of honor can barely form a coherent sentence,"  
Scully replied. "I'll catch him up when the street value of  
his blood drops." 

This time Palermo chuckled, but his expression quickly  
turned serious. "Doctor Scully, you're not going to be  
happy about the results." 

Her stomach twisted painfully and her throat constricted.  
"What did you find?" 

The doctor frowned, shaking his head. "Nothing." 

"*Nothing*?" Scully felt a giddy sense of euphoria for a  
full ten seconds before the real implication of Palermo's  
words hit her. "Wait a minute. How could you find  
nothing?" 

Palermo lifted one shoulder, looking a bit perplexed. "I  
went over it with a fine toothed comb, even got a second  
opinion. It is completely normal." 

Scully nearly trembled with frustration. She strode to the  
gurney and clamped both hands onto the rail, staring into  
Mulder's peaceful face. Whirling around so that the metal  
dug into her back, she crossed her arms tightly as if to  
avoid fragmenting into pieces. 

"The man has been enduring headaches so intense he  
vomits. Tonight the pain got so bad he actually experienced  
a kind of seizure and briefly fugued out. How can the scan  
possibly be normal?" 

She knew she was misdirecting her anger and frustration  
toward Palermo, but couldn't seem to stop herself. None of  
this was supposed to be happening. Mulder had survived  
the psychosis, and even brain surgery. How much more  
could either of them be expected to take? 

"The residual effects of the seizure are evident, of course,"  
the doctor conceded, not taking offense at her words. "But  
there is no sign of swelling, intracranial bleeding, or tumor.  
Nothing to explain why Mulder should be experiencing any  
of the symptoms you've described." 

Scully pressed the backs of her fingers to her lips, closing  
her eyes. "What do you propose we do now?" 

"Nothing." 

When her eyes flew open he raised a quelling hand. "For  
tonight. Take him home and let him get some sleep. You  
and I both know that's key right now. As recovered as he  
may look on the outside, his body is still healing and needs  
plenty of rest. Who knows? Maybe these headaches are  
simply a manifestation of his inability to handle stress right  
now." 

"*Stress*? Doctor, I'll admit we have an extremely  
demanding occupation, and that Mulder is a very driven  
individual. But these headaches are way beyond what you'd  
expect from stress, and they seem to pop up out of the blue.  
One minute he's feeling great and then as soon as he even  
attempts to work..." Her eyes widened and she felt abruptly  
lightheaded. "Oh my God," she whispered. 

Palermo reached out to steady her. "Easy, there. I know it's  
frustrating, Dr. Scully, but we have to take this one step at a  
time," he said soothingly. "Bring him back tomorrow  
morning. I'd like to do an MRI and possibly an RN scan.  
Until we figure out exactly what's going on, I want him  
back on the Dilantin. Does he have any left or do I need to  
write you a scrip?" 

Scully focused on the question with effort, still reeling from  
her epiphany. "Um, yes." 

Palermo chuckled. "Yes, he has some at home or yes, you  
need me to write a scrip?" he pressed. 

Scully blinked, then shook her head. "I'm sorry. Yes, he  
still has the pills at home." 

Palermo gave her arm a squeeze before releasing it. "Get  
some rest, Dr. Scully. You look like you could use it. And  
try not to worry about your partner -- we'll get to the  
bottom of what ails him." 

Scully forced herself to concentrate on smiling and nodding  
convincingly, though she felt as if she were falling down a  
deep, dark hole. Once Palermo had left she collapsed back  
into the chair beside Mulder's bed and stared sightlessly at  
him, her mind replaying each time he'd suffered a headache  
in her presence. The result only fed her alarm. 

*At her apartment looking over casefiles, Mulder trying to  
pull information from his normally infallible memory only  
to draw a blank. Reading over the casefile in the office,  
beginning a preliminary profile and identifying possible  
avenues of investigation. Taking information she'd gathered  
and executing what Skinner called "The Leap" -- that  
uncanny ability to pull together pieces of seemingly-  
disjointed information and assemble them into a coherent  
whole.* 

All examples of Mulder being uniquely...Mulder.  
Exercising the genius of his eidetic memory paired with his  
"out of the box" thinking. In each case, he'd felt fine until  
he'd engaged that complex brain and attempted to do what  
he did so well. 

She'd called the headaches crippling -- was that statement  
truer than she'd realized? 

On the surface it seemed a ridiculous idea, the stuff of fairy  
tales. The evil wizard casts a spell on the handsome prince,  
turning him into a helpless toad. 

Helpless. 

Useless. 

Had the headaches ever struck while they were filling out  
expense reports? Or in one of those interminably long and  
tedious budget meetings -- God knows, they certainly gave  
*her* a migraine. Scully wracked her brain, looking for  
something, anything to disprove the awful suspicion that  
had taken root and wouldn't seem to go away. Just one  
instance when they'd been in the middle of a totally  
innocuous activity and he'd whined about his head or  
popped some Tylenol. 

She came up empty. 

She buried her head in her hands, no longer able to look at  
the serenity in his face. Again, the image of him strapped,  
Christ-like, to a stainless steel table assaulted her senses,  
Palermo's baffled voice a counterpoint. 

*Frankly, Dr. Scully, I'm at a complete loss. It's clear  
he was subjected to surgery and there are indications that  
something was excised and removed near the brain stem. I  
just can't tell you what.* 

They'd been so concerned, so absorbed by what that  
cigarette-smoking bastard might have taken from Mulder.  
But what if the question they'd failed to ask was far more  
important? 

What damage could he have done while he had the chance?  
  


Georgetown  
Sunday  
8:53 a.m.  
  


Mulder drifted slowly back to consciousness, comfortable  
but with the nagging sensation that something was amiss.  
The sun was wrong, he decided, studying the flickering  
pattern of light and dark on the insides of his eyelids. Lying  
on his couch, the rays usually spilled over the top of his  
head -- this illumination originated somewhere past his  
right shoulder. And speaking of his couch, the smooth,  
slightly worn leather beneath his cheek had been replaced  
by soft flannel. He sniffed. Flannel that smelled of soap, the  
faintest hint of vanilla, and... SCULLY? 

Mulder's eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright, clutching  
the sheet. His gaze darted around the bedroom while he ran  
the fingers of one hand through tousled hair. A towel and  
the spare pair of his sweats that normally resided in the  
bottom drawer of her bureau lay beside his clothes and  
shoes, neatly piled on a chair. His clothes... 

For the first time Mulder registered that not only had he  
awakened in Scully's bed, he'd done so clad only in boxers.  
He felt the heat rise in his cheeks, uncertain whether to be  
worried by the gap in his memory, embarrassed that Scully  
had witnessed such vulnerability, or turned on that she'd  
undressed him. 

He swung his legs gingerly over the side of the mattress  
and stood, relieved by the absence of pain and dizziness.  
His last coherent memory was bright shards of agony  
pulsing relentlessly through his brain and obliterating all  
thought. Beyond that he had only a collection of vague  
impressions. Scully cradling him as he writhed on the floor.  
His forehead pressed hard against cool glass and the  
rhythmic drone of rubber on pavement. Hands guiding him  
into a long, dark tunnel echoing the rumble of a freight  
train. The sting of a needle that banished the pain, leaving  
him first giddy with relief and then heavy-limbed with  
lethargy... 

Mulder scrubbed his palms over his face. He desperately  
needed a shower, coffee, and help filling the blanks -- in  
that order. He picked up the towel and sweats and padded  
into the bathroom. 

Scully looked up from her computer at the groan of water  
through pipes. She worried her lower lip with her teeth,  
then logged off and went to the kitchen to start a fresh pot  
of coffee. Her hands completed the simple tasks of drawing  
water and measuring grounds (decaf -- Mulder was sure to  
bitch and moan about *that*) while her mind spun in  
useless circles like tires on ice. 

By the time she'd hauled her semi-conscious partner up to  
her apartment, stripped off his clothes, and deposited him  
in her bed, Scully's body ached with exhaustion. Her mind,  
however, had other ideas. She'd tossed and turned on the  
couch, finally admitting defeat around five-thirty. Once  
she'd determined Mulder was sleeping like a rock, she'd  
brewed a pot of coffee, logged onto the Internet, and begun  
searching for information on neurological disorders. 

Three hours later she possessed a broadened knowledge  
base but no facts that would back up her theory about  
Mulder's headaches. Yet she knew in her heart that she was  
right. Each time Mulder tried to work, to put his mind to  
solving the case, the headaches struck with a vengeance.  
Not while they were filling out old expense reports. Not  
during Skinner's weekly staff meeting for department  
heads. Not even when they'd fallen into an intense  
argument over an old case and he'd been tight-lipped with  
frustration. Coincidence? As Mulder often pointed out, if  
it's coincidence, why does it feel so contrived? 

"When you're done staring at it, I'd love a cup." 

Scully jerked back from where she stood, palms propped on  
either side of the coffee maker and eyes fixed on the trickle  
of brown liquid. She glanced at Mulder in irritation --  
slouched in the doorway with damp hair and a teasing grin.  
How many times in the past week had he caught her  
daydreaming? 

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," he said in a voice that  
indicated he was anything but. "I just never knew you could  
absorb the benefits of coffee through osmosis." 

"You're a real riot this morning, Mulder," she said  
sarcastically, reaching into the cupboard for a mug.  
"Almost as funny as you were last night." 

It was hitting below the belt, but he deserved it, she thought  
smugly. His eyes slid away to contemplate the cross  
stitched picture that hung on the wall near her table, lower  
lip caught between his teeth. 

"Uh...Scully? That reminds me of a question I wanted to  
ask you," he said, shifting his weight from right foot to left. 

Scully poured the coffee, grinning while her back was to  
him. She turned, offering him the mug and a wide-eyed  
look of innocence. "Yes, Mulder?" 

She was extremely amused to see a flush spread across his  
face and his respiration quicken. "Um. My recollection of  
last night is pretty poor. I mean, the last clear memory I  
have is of sitting around my coffee table and discussing the  
case. How exactly did I wind up in your bed?" 

How could she possibly resist when he'd just handed her  
the perfect opening, all laid out on a silver platter? Scully  
thrust her own lip out in an exaggerated pout and lowered  
her voice to a sultry level. 

"You told me you'd never forget last night, Mulder." 

His shock was comical. His jaw attempted to scrape the  
floor and his eyes blinked dazedly. To his credit, he  
recovered quickly and mustered a passable leer. 

"Oooh, Scully. Was I good?" 

Scully snorted at that. "You were in rare form, Mulder.  
What *do* you recall?" 

Mulder frowned, wandering over to the table and sinking  
into a chair. She sat across from him, studying the faded  
lines of pain around his eyes and mouth. He stared into the  
mug, swirling the liquid in a gentle circle. 

"Pain," he said simply. "Possibly more intense than any I've  
ever felt, more than the gunshot in North Carolina. I think I  
remember being in your car?" When Scully nodded he  
continued. "Then... It doesn't make any sense. I have this  
image of being trapped in a tunnel with a train coming." 

Scully's lips curved but her eyes were sad. "The CAT  
scan," she murmured. "You were pretty out of it when they  
took you down to radiology." She released a small puff of  
air, not quite a laugh. "And high as a kite when they  
brought you back." 

Mulder dropped his head into his hands and groaned. "I  
suddenly got this vague impression of flirting with a  
middle-aged woman in blue scrubs. Please tell me I'm  
exhibiting false memory syndrome." 

Scully grinned. "That would be your nurse, Donna. Don't  
worry, she thought you were very captivating." 

Mulder wrinkled his nose and mouthed, "Ha, ha," then  
shook his head, puzzled. "Demerol doesn't usually affect  
me that strongly." 

"Palermo gave you a shot of Dilantin, Mulder. On top of  
the Demerol, you could say it was a one-two punch. Once  
the euphoria over being pain-free wore off you were out  
like a light. I barely got you back here -- at one point I  
thought you were going to curl up on the front step and  
camp out for the night." 

Mulder's eyebrows knit together. "Dilantin? Why?" 

Scully sucked in a long draught of air, releasing it slowly.  
He really didn't remember. 

"Mulder, you seized on me. Not full blown, but enough to  
scare me. Palermo wants you back on the Dilantin full time,  
at least until we can figure out what's going on." 

The scowl deepened. "Nothing's going on, Scully! I just  
must've overdone things a bit, that's all. I'll slow down, take  
more breaks when I'm working and..." 

Something in her face, an expression he wasn't sure he  
recognized, made the words dry up in his mouth. Until that  
very moment he would have said he knew every possible  
combination of Scully's features -- fury, scorn, sorrow,  
guilt, joy, affection. That he couldn't put a tag on this one  
left Mulder's heart thumping unevenly in his chest. 

"Scully?" 

"Mulder, you don't have a seizure from working too hard,"  
she said slowly. "You admitted that that the pain from this  
latest headache was excruciating. Those are symptoms,  
partner, the body's way of warning that something is  
wrong. Palermo was correct to put you back on the  
Dilantin, a more severe seizure could be the beginning of  
the end of your career as an agent." 

Mulder leaned back in his chair, studying her intently.  
Something was wrong, all right -- the way she was acting.  
Words spoken too gently and carefully, tiptoeing instead of  
marching. She should be angry with him, reprimanding him  
for his stubborn refusal to acknowledge her concerns for  
his health. One thing he could count on from Scully -- she  
never pulled her punches. 

"What are you not telling me, Scully?" he demanded  
bluntly. "What do you know that I don't?" 

Scully spread her hands on the tabletop, tracing the wood  
grain with a finger. "I don't *know* anything, Mulder."  
When he uttered a small grunt of impatience she held up a  
constraining hand. "But I do have some suspicions." 

He frowned. "Go on." 

She met his eyes, choosing her words carefully. "Mulder,  
we never really figured out what was done to you when you  
were with Spender..." 

"Besides the fact that he had them cut my head open, you  
mean?" he interrupted acidly. "Gives the term 'playing  
doctor' a whole new meaning, doesn't it?" 

"Are you listening to me or not?" 

The rebuke came out more sharply than Scully had  
intended and she sighed inwardly when Mulder folded his  
arms and nodded sourly. She knew he didn't like talking  
about this, that he still suffered from nightmares in which  
he was forced to relive the surgery, restrained but  
completely conscious of every slice of the scalpel. The  
biting sarcasm was his method of deflecting the horror and  
convincing himself he'd regained control. Understanding it  
didn't mean she had to like it. 

"As you know, we ran the gamut of neurological tests. We  
could see that something had been removed near the brain  
stem, largely due to minor trauma of the surrounding tissue.  
Even that diagnosis made no sense, however, since the  
CAT scan also indicated your brain was essentially intact.  
All our discussions, our suppositions, have focused on that  
anomaly and what it might mean." 

Mulder jerked his eyes free from hers, teeth grinding in  
frustration. "You aren't telling me anything I don't already  
know, Scully. What's your point?" 

The flash of anger his words inspired died as Scully caught  
a slight tremor beneath the fury in his tone, naked fear  
concealed by the insolence in his gaze. 

"My point, is that we were distracted by the clear link  
between your surgery and loss of telepathy, and never  
adequately considered the other possible ramifications."  
She reached across the table, plucking one hand from its  
chokehold on his ribs. "It was an ideal opportunity for  
Spender -- you were completely defenseless, Mulder. What  
if the surgery entailed more than just removing the alien  
element from your brain? What if he saw the chance to  
slow you down? To ensure you'd no longer be a constant  
thorn in his side?" 

Mulder pulled his hand back as if scalded, his face pale.  
"You think these headaches are engineered? That they're  
the result of something that black-lunged bastard did to my  
brain?" he asked, his voice thrumming with a combination  
of fury and panic. "I... Maybe I'm just a slow healer -- you  
said there was visible trauma from the surgery! I just need a  
little more time." 

Scully's stomach churned at his desperation but she  
resolutely shook her head. "Mulder, you're getting worse,  
not better. And I think I know the reason. Last night,  
talking to Palermo, I realized that each of the headaches  
I've witnessed has occurred while you were working. The  
first time occurred while we were arguing over that case  
involving lycanthropy. It happened again when you began  
delving into the Pro-Choice murders, and has escalated  
each time you've attempted to work on the profile. Last  
night, just as we'd begun to make some real headway  
towards identifying the killer, you had the worst attack yet.  
You'd have to be blind not to recognize the implications." 

Mulder swallowed hard and licked his lips. "Are we talking  
permanent brain damage, Scully? Is that what you think?  
Then why was the CAT scan normal?" 

"No test is infallible, Mulder," she answered gently, then  
grimaced. "Maybe what they did won't show up on  
conventional tests. Maybe it's not really damage at all, but  
some sort of...of chemical rewiring accomplished with  
drugs." 

A trace of amusement seeped into the bleakness of  
Mulder's eyes. "Rewired? I'm supposed to be the one with  
the wild theories, remember Scully? Next thing I know  
you'll be suggesting that little green men did this to me." 

The humor was forced but Scully credited the effort by  
mustering the shadow of a smile. "Gray, Mulder. And I  
wouldn't start picking out china patterns just yet." 

Mulder blew out a harsh breath of air and lifted both hands,  
palms up. "So...what do we do?" 

"We take it one step at a time. Palermo expects us back at  
the hospital this morning for some additional tests. I also  
want a more complete tox screen run on your blood. They  
can draw it at the hospital but I want it analyzed at the  
Bureau." 

"And if we come up empty?" 

Scully's words were as soft as the brush of her fingers on  
his hand. "One step at a time, Mulder." She collected his  
empty mug and walked over to the counter. "Coffee?" 

"I'd love some. Where are you hiding it?" 

Scully masked the smirk with an arched brow, taking  
obscure comfort in his predictability. "Just for that, you can  
pour your own. I'm taking a shower." 

When Mulder didn't jump on the obvious opportunity for a  
lewd remark, she paused and turned back. He was sitting  
very still, shoulders hunched and eyes distant. 

"Mulder, try not to worry. We'll do everything in our power  
to find out what's wrong." 

He didn't move, didn't shift his gaze, his voice barely above  
a whisper. "I'm not worried we won't figure out what they  
did, Scully. I'm worried we won't be able to do anything  
about it." 

For that she had no answer.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Georgetown Memorial  
Sunday  
12:42 p.m.  
  


Scully leaned her head back until it thumped against  
plaster, watching Mulder pace with slitted eyes. The  
rollercoaster ride of the past twenty-four hours had finally  
caught up with her and she felt bleary and thickheaded with  
exhaustion. She watched her partner make another circuit  
of the waiting area and had the sudden impression of a  
panther on the prowl -- in black jeans and a black v-neck  
sweater Mulder looked just as sleek and dangerous. 

"Mulder, sit down. You're scaring the other patients," she  
groused. 

He shot her an annoyed glare but returned to flop onto the  
couch beside her, propping an ankle on one knee and  
settling back with a discontented grunt. A moment later his  
foot was wriggling restlessly until the entire piece of  
furniture vibrated from the motion. 

Past the point of simple annoyance and headed rapidly for  
homicide, Scully opened her eyes and drilled them into the  
side of his face. When Mulder remained oblivious she sat  
forward, clamped her hand onto the toe of his sneaker, and  
squeezed. 

"Mulder, I will hurt you if you keep this up. As my godson  
would say, take a chill pill." 

Amazing the intricacies you learned about someone after  
seven years. Order Mulder to do anything, especially with  
anger, and you'd get only stubbornness and rebellion for  
your trouble. Yet a little humor, injected in just the right  
place, seemed to bypass his defenses and achieve results.  
He broke into a rueful grin that failed to mask the worry  
behind it. 

"You got it, girlfriend," he wisecracked, but the foot did  
stop jumping. 

"Look, Mulder, I know you're anxious for the test results.  
But Dr. Palermo said he'd come and get us as soon as he  
knew anything, so try not to wear a groove in the  
linoleum." 

He sighed deeply and let his head fall onto the back of the  
couch. "I'm so tired, Scully." 

Knocked off balance by the uncharacteristic admission,  
Scully tried to read his expression. His closed eyes and  
blank features, however, revealed nothing about his state of  
mind. 

"It was a rough night, Mulder, and you're still not 100  
percent. It's only natural you'd feel exhausted," she said  
carefully. 

He shook his head, eyes still tightly shuttered against her.  
"Not that kind of tired, Scully. Tired of the same old, same  
old. Of endlessly running the race only to find I'm on the  
hamster's wheel, right where I started. They took away my  
sister, and they murdered yours. They abducted you and  
stole your children; they kidnapped me and took...whatever  
the hell they ripped from my brain. They gave you cancer,  
and now I sit here waiting to find out what little present  
they've seen fit to bestow on me. Why do we do it, Scully?  
Why do we play punching bag and keep popping back up  
for more?" 

"Mulder. Look at me." 

His lids dragged open reluctantly and hazel wearily melded  
with blue. Scully reached out to lace her fingers with his. 

"We do it for your father and our sisters. We do it for the  
millions of innocent families out there that have no  
awareness of the darkness that exists just outside their front  
doors. We do it because we have the knowledge and ability  
to fight these bastards." She smiled a bittersweet smile.  
"And most importantly, Mulder, we do it because if we quit  
now, they win." 

He looked down at their joined hands, spellbound. So very  
different --his large and rough, hers tiny and pale -- but  
they fit together so perfectly. A bond that neither aliens nor  
flukemen, conspiracies nor serial killers had been able to  
break. Did she understand just how integral to his life and  
his quest she'd become? Without her, his passion would  
have burned itself out, consuming him in the process. 

He stroked his thumb across the soft skin. "Scully, I want  
you to know..." 

"Agent Mulder? Dr. Palermo will see you and Dr. Scully in  
his office now." 

His body reacted to the nurse's cheerful pronouncement by  
abruptly turning to ice. Mulder watched Scully rise and  
graciously thank the nurse, assuring her that yes, they could  
find their way without assistance. She turned, brows lifting  
in puzzlement when he failed to join her. 

"Mulder, five minutes ago you were so impatient to speak  
with Palermo you could barely sit still. Now he's ready to  
see us and you're doing a mean impersonation of a rock.  
Are you coming or not?" The exasperation in her query was  
tempered by the slight curve of her lips and a glint in her  
eye. 

It thawed Mulder enough that he could drag himself to his  
feet and follow down the hallway. He guided Scully  
through Palermo's doorway with one hand pressed to the  
small of her back and waited politely for her to seat herself  
before settling into his own chair. They sat in silence, but  
for the ticking of the wall clock, until Palermo bustled in a  
moment later. 

"Sorry for the wait, but things are a little backed up around  
here today," he apologized, laying Mulder's chart on the  
blotter and dropping into his chair. "We're shorthanded  
thanks to the flu bug that's been making the rounds." 

"We understand," Scully replied, while Mulder offered a  
curt nod. 

Palermo laid his folded hands atop the folder. "I've got  
good news and bad news," he said, eyes darting between  
their faces before finally coming to rest on Mulder's. "The  
good news is that the tests all came back normal." 

Mulder licked his lips, frowning. "And the bad news?" 

Palermo's smile was rueful. "The bad news is that all the  
tests came back normal," he said dryly. 

Mulder chewed his lip, considering before speaking. "In  
other words, you can tell I'm not dying of a brain tumor but  
you don't have a clue what's causing the headaches." 

Palermo blew out a long breath of air and shook his head.  
"I wish I could tell you differently. The MRI, RN scan, and  
EKG were textbook, Mulder. I confess I'm at a loss to  
explain how you could be experiencing the level of pain  
you were in last night. I'm simply unable to find a  
biological basis for it." 

The little line between Mulder's brows deepened. "So what  
are you telling me? You're going to run more tests?" 

Scully shifted uncomfortably beside him, drawing his  
attention from Palermo. "No more tests, Mulder. Dr.  
Palermo has already used all the appropriate diagnostic  
tools at his disposal." 

"The brain is an extremely complex organ, Mulder, and  
there's so much we still don't understand," Palermo said  
solicitously. He hesitated, as if debating whether to  
continue, then said, "You've been through an extremely  
traumatic set of circumstances, both physically and  
emotionally. As a psychologist, I'm sure you're aware that  
the repercussions from such events can exhibit themselves  
in unusual ways. You might consider talking to someone  
about your experience." 

Mulder leaned forward, hands clamping reflexively on the  
arms of the chair. "You think I need to see a *shrink*, that  
this is all in my *mind*?" he growled, white with outrage. 

Scully reached over to lay a restraining hand on his arm,  
but he shrugged it off. Palermo's voice remained calm and  
firm, a fact that only fanned the flames of his anger. 

"Don't discount the impact of your ordeal, Mulder. There's  
no shame in admitting the possibility that you need help  
dealing with it. Post Traumatic Stress..." 

"I'm intimately acquainted with PTSD, Dr. Palermo, in  
ways you'll never understand," Mulder snapped. "My  
headaches are not the manifestation of a repressed  
psychological breakdown, and the last thing I need is some  
Freudian headshrinker tracing them back to my toilet  
training! Now if you'll excuse me, I think I've damn well  
heard enough of your insights for one day." 

He shoved the chair back with enough force that it nearly  
toppled and stalked from the room. Halfway down the  
hallway his rage and frustration reached critical mass and  
he turned and slammed his fist twice against the wall,  
ignoring the startled, apprehensive glance from a passing  
nurse. 

Scully found him still standing there a moment later,  
cradling bloody knuckles and swearing softly under his  
breath. Gentle fingers probed the split skin, an apologetic  
wince when he hissed in pain. 

"Oh, Mulder," she murmured, peering up into his eyes. "I  
can't take you anywhere, can I?" When he didn't respond to  
the joke she sighed. "Go sit in the lounge. I'll get something  
to clean those up." 

She returned with antiseptic pads and some gauze.  
Resuming her spot beside him on the couch, she tugged his  
hand into her lap and carefully dabbed at the oozing blood. 

"Mulder, given his limited knowledge, Palermo's  
suggestion was not unreasonable. He can't find a  
physiological cause for the headaches and he realizes  
they're triggered by your work. He has no understanding of  
Spender, the Consortium, or the kind of technology they're  
capable of wielding." 

"I'm not crazy," he muttered through clenched teeth. 

Scully paused, cupping his jaw with her free hand. "I know  
that. Why is this bothering you so much, Mulder?" 

Mulder kneaded his forehead with the fingers of his free  
hand, then dragged the palm down his face. "Scully... I  
haven't told you much about my time with VICAP." 

"No. You haven't." Scully kept her gaze on the work of her  
hands, wrapping gauze around his swollen knuckles. She  
could sense the effort that dredging up those days required,  
and wanted to give him some emotional space. 

"By the time I transferred out, I...I was in pretty raw shape.  
I'd been approaching burnout for nearly a year, but the last  
six months I began to seriously lose it." He chuckled  
bitterly. "Not that my job performance was suffering. I'd  
gotten very, very good at crawling into the minds of serial  
killers and making myself at home. The problem was, the  
easier it became to slip in, the harder it got to drag myself  
back out. And even worse, each time I did I felt as if a little  
more filth stuck to me and wouldn't brush off." In a  
gossamer thin voice he added, "It got so I couldn't find  
myself anymore. I was buried alive." 

Scully tied off the bandage but retained possession of his  
hand. "But you found the strength to dig your way out." 

Mulder flashed her a grateful smile, then huffed, "I had no  
choice, it was killing me. I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat -- I'd  
dropped twenty pounds. I had an almost constant headache.  
Popped so much aspirin I nearly wound up with an ulcer." 

She understood, now, where he was headed, but allowed  
him to reach the destination at his own pace. 

"I know the difference between physical and psychological,  
Scully. I've been there. There was nothing physically  
wrong with me back then, I was my body's own worst  
enemy. This is different." 

Scully lay her hand over his, deliberately making eye  
contact. "I believe you, Mulder." 

The utter relief that washed over his face was  
heartbreaking, and she ruefully shook her head. "Does that  
really surprise you?" 

To her delight, a glint of mischief lit his face. "Scully, you  
gotta admit you have a long history of doubting me." 

She cocked an eyebrow, then smiled. "Only your theories,  
partner. Never you. Besides, look at the evidence." She  
held up his hand, knuckles swathed in gauze. "You lost  
your temper back there in Palermo's office. You became so  
angry you punched the wall -- have I mentioned how stupid  
that was, Mulder? Now, speaking pragmatically, just how  
stressed out do you suppose you were at that moment?" 

Mulder grinned sheepishly. "Pretty stressed." 

Scully snorted. "I'd venture to say your blood pressure was  
off the charts. Do you see where I'm headed with this?" 

"I didn't get a headache. I'm with you, Doc." He pulled at  
his lip, the laughter gone. "Still leaves us back at square  
one. How do you treat an illness you can't even find?" 

Leave it to Mulder to cut right to the hard question. Scully  
pursed her lips and considered. 

"I'm not sure what to tell you, Mulder. Palermo was right  
when he said that the brain has a lot of uncharted territory." 

The chirp of a cell phone aborted her response. After a  
moment of fumbling through pockets the culprit was  
identified as Scully's. She flipped it open and turned,  
pointedly ignoring the disapproving glare of a nearby  
nurse. 

"Scully." 

Mulder absently picked at his bandage, snapping to  
attention when Scully's voice turned sharp and  
businesslike. 

"When?" 

She propped the phone between cheek and shoulder,  
fishing a spiral notepad and pen from her coat. 

"Just like the others?" A brief pause and her eyes slipped  
shut, then popped open. "Where?" 

Mulder watched her scribble madly on the pad,  
occasionally nodding and injecting "Yes, sir." After several  
minutes more of the one-sided conversation she  
disconnected and eyed him grimly. 

"There's been another murder," Mulder guessed, scanning  
her face. 

"They found the body about an hour ago. SAC Jeffereys  
has been calling both our apartments, trying to reach us.  
They'd like me to do the autopsy on this one." 

"I want to see the scene." 

Dead voice. Flat and uncompromising. Scully's expression  
turned thunderous. She lunged to her feet and spun to face  
him, hands on hips. 

"Are you out of your mind?" 

Mulder put on his patented smartass smirk. "I thought we'd  
already answered that question." 

"Mulder, putting aside the fact that we had an agreement  
that you'd stay out of the field, have you actually forgotten  
last night? You can't continue to work this case." 

"I *can*, Scully. I have to. I'm getting close to catching this  
bastard and you know it!" 

"Mulder, we have *no idea* what's triggering these  
headaches or what the consequences might be! You could  
have an aneurysm, stroke out..." 

He looked up at her calmly. "You admitted I was in a bad  
way last night. Was there any damage?" 

He had her, and Scully could feel her own blood pressure  
skyrocketing.  


"No. This time. Who's to say what will happen the next?" 

Still cool and composed. "I'm willing to take that risk." 

"Well, I'm not. I'm recommending to Skinner that you be  
removed from this investigation, Mulder." 

She turned on her heel and headed for the double doors to  
the parking lot, gasping when a hand clamped roughly  
around her upper arm, fingers biting into the soft flesh.  
Mulder spun her around to face him, and she caught her  
breath at the sight of his face. 

Raw, untempered fury, yes, but something else. Something  
unexpected that pierced her defenses and softened her  
resolve. 

Desolation. 

"You can't *do* that to me, Scully! Not now, not when I'm  
so close I can taste it! This is part of what I do, who I am!"  
His voice broke and he abruptly released her, turning his  
back. One shaking hand came up to scrub at his eyes, his  
voice barely audible. "They've taken everything from me,  
Scully. Don't let them take this too." 

Scully closed her eyes against the burn of tears, resignation  
flooding her body until she could barely stand. Dr.  
Lathrop's words unexpectedly echoed through her head. 

*So many people see this as a black and white issue, Agent  
Scully. Truth is, there's an amazing amount of gray.* 

Some days she felt that summed up her entire existence.  
Could nothing in her life remain a comforting shade of  
black or white? How many times would this man ask her to  
compromise what she felt with such certainty? 

"All right," she said dully. "I'll take you by the scene.  
You've got ten minutes. One minute longer and I *will*  
have that talk with Skinner, Mulder. Don't push me on  
this." 

He didn't turn around, but his head bobbed in  
acknowledgement. The hand swiped at his eyes again and  
he drew a long, shaky breath of air. 

"Thank you." 

The urge to weep was nearly overwhelming. "Don't thank  
me, Mulder. I don't think I've done you a favor. This goes  
against my better judgement." 

Mulder's voice was soft with gratitude. "I know, Scully.  
That's why I said it."  
  


Arlington  
Sunday  
2:21 p.m.  
  


Camera flashes and the babble of hastily shouted questions  
assaulted them the moment they exited Scully's car. She  
stole a quick glance at her partner, reassured by the cool,  
professional mask that had settled over his features. They  
flashed their badges at the uniformed cops in charge of  
crowd control and ducked under the yellow tape that  
cordoned off the opening to a narrow alley. A small dry  
cleaning business flanked one side of the passageway, a  
second-hand clothing store the other. 

Midway down the dingy, litter-strewn street a large metal  
dumpster squatted beside the back door to the cleaners,  
surrounded by more cops, members of the forensics team,  
and several VCS agents. One of the agents, tall with a  
neatly trimmed beard and horn-rimmed glasses, looked up  
at their approach, brown eyes narrowing and a frown  
twisting his thin lips. He detached himself from the group  
and met them halfway. 

"Agent Mulder, Agent Scully," he greeted cursorily.  
Pinning Mulder with the full weight of his stare, he  
demanded, "Mulder, what in the hell are you doing here? I  
was under the impression you were still barred from the  
field." 

Mulder's head swiveled toward the man but his gaze,  
riveted by the dumpster, took a little longer to arrive. "It's  
nice to see you too, sir. No time to chat, though, I'm here to  
view the crime scene." 

Scully's lips compressed to a thin line as she watched him  
amble over to the dumpster. She turned her attention to the  
red-faced SAC, acutely aware of her blue jeans and Doc  
Martens beside Jeffreys' power suit and feeling vulnerable  
as a result. 

"Sir, we're well aware of his restricted duty status, and we  
won't be here long. Agent Mulder feels he can get a much  
better picture of the UNSUB by examining the scene first  
hand, rather than through photos. He can absorb the details,  
get a feel for the killer's motivations..." 

Jeffreys snorted and rolled his eyes. "Patterson's mumbo  
jumbo," he said disdainfully, following Mulder's  
movements with sharp eyes. 

"Yes, Patterson," Scully replied coolly. "Whatever else he  
may be, the man is legendary for his groundbreaking  
contributions to VICAP. And using just such 'mumbo  
jumbo' gave Agent Mulder the highest solve rate of any  
profiler to date. If I'm not mistaken, sir, that's why you  
wanted him on this case." 

Jeffreys' jaw clenched in annoyance. "Just goes to show  
how desperate we are," he muttered. He waved a hand  
dismissively. "Carry on, Agent Scully. And see that your  
partner is out of here ASAP. Skinner will have my ass if  
anything happens to him." 

Scully bit back any further response and headed over to the  
hub of activity. Mulder stood next to another agent, head  
bent in deference to the man's shorter stature, immersed in  
conversation. 

"...saw anything, just like all the others," the agent was  
saying. 

When Scully joined them Mulder straightened, flashing her  
an almost guilty smile. "This is my partner, Agent Scully,"  
he said. "Scully, this is Agent Doug Costanza, better known  
as Digger around the VCS." 

Digger, olive-skinned and dark-haired, huffed at the  
introduction. "Thanks to you, Spooky," he replied  
sarcastically. He extended his hand, regarding Scully with  
black eyes that twinkled good-naturedly despite his words.  
"Agent Scully, it's a pleasure to meet you. Anyone who  
could survive six years with Mulder here as her partner  
must be pretty special." 

"Not to mention a candidate for sainthood," Scully said  
dryly, offering Mulder a slanted grin. 

Predictably, Mulder clutched his chest and adopted a  
mournful expression. "Scully, you wound me!" 

She ignored his theatrics though her lips quirked just a bit.  
"Why do they call you Digger, Agent Costanza?" 

"Let's just say I'm...ah...proficient in the art of gathering  
information through electronic means," Digger said,  
shooting Mulder a quelling glare when he made a choking  
sound. 

Scully raised an eyebrow. "You mean you're a hacker," she  
said shrewdly. 

Digger's mouth dropped open, then he shrugged with a  
Cheshire cat grin. "I find the term rather crude, but I guess  
you could put it that way." 

"Don't let him fool you, Scully. Once he gets his teeth into  
a case there's no stopping him. He's got moves that would  
make the Gunmen weep," Mulder chimed in. "But don't tell  
them I said that," he added hastily. 

A lightbulb went on in Scully's head and some of the  
amusement left her face. "You're the one that passed  
Mulder information on this case. *Before* he'd been  
cleared to join the team," she added pointedly. 

Digger looked properly ashamed. "I felt we were at a  
standstill," he admitted sheepishly. "And I've seen Spooky  
pull plenty of rabbits out of his hat. I was sure he could  
help us." He looked over at Mulder, a line appearing  
between his brows. "I didn't realize how sick he'd been,  
or..." 

"*I* approached *him*, Scully," Mulder broke in, a touch  
of irritation in his voice. "Digger just gave me what I asked  
for. Now, if you two will excuse me, I'd better take a look  
at the body so we can get out of here. Jeffreys looks like  
he's ready to shit a brick and I'd rather not be here for the  
big event." 

Digger spluttered at Mulder's irreverence, unable to contain  
his mirth. He watched Mulder prowl around the dumpster  
for a moment before returning his focus to Scully. "He  
hasn't changed a bit," he mused, shaking his head. "Still  
three steps ahead and pissed off about waiting for the rest  
of us." 

Scully's mouth curved at the insightful assessment. "What  
made you think he'd be any different?" 

Digger shrugged. "Haven't seen much of him since he took  
on the X-Files, but...well, I've heard things now and then."  
He shifted uncomfortably under Scully's sharp glare,  
squinting up at the cloudless sky. "Mulder's always  
generated plenty of talk, Agent Scully. Once I got to know  
him I realized that a good ninety-percent of it comes from  
people too narrow-minded to understand his genius or too  
jealous to acknowledge it." 

Scully's eyes softened. "You can call me Dana, Digger."  
She grinned. "Any friend of Mulder's, and all that." 

Digger's shoulders relaxed and he returned her smile. "All  
right, Dana. And I meant what I started to say earlier. I'd  
never have let Spooky finagle that information out of me if  
I'd realized he was in such rough shape. Are you sure he's  
ready for this?" 

Scully's eyebrow soared again. "You said you know him,  
Digger. Have you ever tried to stop him from doing  
something, once he's put his mind to it?" 

She could see memories scroll across the man's face.  
"Ah...yeah. I see what you mean. Kinda like standing in the  
path of a steamroller and trying to direct traffic." 

She chuckled. "Good analogy. Now I think I'd better join  
him before he mows down any unsuspecting pedestrians." 

Scully wove through the milling agents and police, her feet  
leaden as she peered over the edge of the trash container. A  
pale wash of wheat colored hair fanned around a stark  
white face, blue veins prominent under nearly translucent  
skin. She was young, no more than twenty-five, at most,  
clad in faded maternity jeans and an oversized tee shirt.  
The inscription leaped out at Scully, a cruel joke whose  
punchline rested in the bloody incision on the woman's  
stomach. 

Baby On Board. 

Scully squeezed her eyes tightly shut, swallowing thickly.  
When she forced them open, mindful of the nearby agents,  
the woman's ravaged abdomen drew her gaze like a  
magnet. 

*We're alike, you and I. Both of us forever barren, cursed  
with an empty womb* 

The fingers, curling gently but firmly around her arm just  
above the crook of her elbow, startled her from her reverie  
with a physical jolt. Mulder's body shielded her from  
curious eyes, his breath warm on the shell of her ear. 

"Scully? You all right?" 

The concern and compassion nearly undid her, putting  
spiderweb cracks in her self-control. She forced herself to  
stare straight ahead. "I'm fine, Mulder." 

His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly, and she could  
sense him push down the frustration those two words  
provoked. "Scully, after six years together I hope you  
would tell me if..." 

She spun to face him, tilting her chin upward and fixing  
him with a steady gaze. "Mulder, I said I was fine and I  
am. Now, are you almost finished here?" 

Forehead creased, Mulder opened his mouth as if to argue.  
Something in her expression must have stopped him,  
however, for he merely sighed and bobbed his head. 

"Yeah. Let's go." 

Scully walked to the car at a brisk pace, lips thin with  
annoyance. She couldn't shake the unmistakable feeling  
that she'd hurt him, let him down somehow by not  
admitting just how raw this case left her emotions. The  
annoyance flared to anger. Yes, their personal relationship  
had been undergoing a subtle but steady shift, and yes, part  
of that shift included an increased willingness to honestly  
express feelings. This was different. This was business,  
there was a killer to be caught. It was essential that Mulder  
trust her ability to cover his back, she couldn't afford to let  
him become mired in concern for her. 

To think she was weak. 

Just because he was inclined to wear his heart on his sleeve,  
to let others watch him bleed over every case that reminded  
him of his sister, that didn't mean he should expect the  
same from her. She was stronger than that, able to put aside  
her own anguish for the good of the investigation. 

Scully reached the car and slipped in behind the wheel,  
waiting for Mulder to join her. One look at his studiously  
blank face and her heart sank, the truth blindsiding her. 

Mulder wasn't the only one disappointed.  
  


Alexandria  
Sunday  
4:36 p.m.  
  


"Mulder, you need to take a break, maybe eat something." 

No response. Scully watched him, well aware that for  
Mulder, she'd ceased to exist. He was in the zone, the soft  
focus, surreal place where he could crawl inside the mind  
of a killer and try it on for size. The heel of his right hand  
served as a prop for his forehead, the thumb of his left  
engaged in that compulsive movement over the fourth  
finger. To all appearances he was studying the yellow pad  
resting on the desk beneath his chin. Scully knew better.  
His eyelids were still, no flicker of movement from the orbs  
beneath. 

It was beginning again. 

She could see it in the slight motion of his hand just above  
his left eye, in the fine lines that magically reappeared  
around his mouth, and in the rigid set to the planes of his  
back. A headache, intensity building along with the depth  
of his concentration. Scully could feel the relentless  
pounding in her own skull, the pain expanding and growing  
as he fed it with his own stubborn determination. 

Her empathy for his pain spawned fear for his health,  
which in turn led to fury with his refusal to back down. She  
didn't want him to admit defeat, just call a truce for the rest  
of the evening. But Mulder, fueled by a broken, violated  
body atop a mound of garbage, simply dug in his heels and  
declared war. 

Scully strode to the desk, bent over, and grabbed his chair  
in both hands, swiveling it until his face was mere inches  
from her own. His reaction, eyes wide and arms flung  
out, might have been comical if not for the violence of her  
feelings. 

"Scully! What the hell do you think you're doing?" 

"Mulder, you need to take a break. It's time for another  
dose of the Dilantin and you need to eat something," she  
said, hating the bossy sound to her own voice. 

Mulder's scowl deepened. "Couldn't you have just said  
something? Why'd you have to sneak up on me like that?" 

The term "blowing a gasket" suddenly held a whole new  
meaning. Scully spoke through clenched teeth, her words  
clipped. "Sneak up on you? Mulder, I called you three  
times! What do I need, a P.A. system?" 

"Fine, I'll eat something. Just let me get a few thoughts  
down..." 

He swiveled back toward the desk and she could feel him  
slipping away from her, back into the hole. 

"No, Mulder! Right now," she insisted, snagging the chair  
once again so that he couldn't complete the turn. 

Mulder's irritation blossomed to anger and he actually  
struggled to break her hold. "Scully, leave me alone! I've  
got to get a bead on this, it's not adding up." 

"Mulder, later! I can see you're..." 

"It doesn't make sense. I can't get the pieces to fit together,"  
he continued as if she hadn't spoken. The veil had dropped  
back over his gaze and she had the uneasy feeling he was  
talking to himself. "It seemed reasonable to think that the  
genetic counselor -- what's her name? -- could be our killer.  
But after viewing the crime scene today, I'm not so sure.  
The b...body had obviously been handled indiscriminately,  
she was tossed on top of the garbage, no thought taken to  
the position, s...simply dumped inside. Yet there's a  
precision to the actual w…wounds and care in the manner  
with which they're inflicted. I don't understand the  
dichotomy." 

"Mulder." 

The hand was actively rubbing his brow now, fingers  
trembling slightly. "Could there b...be more than one  
person involved in these m...murders? One kills and the  
other disposes of the r...remains? It would explain the  
m...mixed messages I'm getting. And could the counselor  
be one of the two, this -- what was her name?" 

"MULDER!" 

Sharp, commanding, it drew his gaze outward but failed to  
derail his train of thought. "What was her n...name, Scully?  
Why c...can't I remember her name?" 

His face contorted in pain and he curled forward, raising  
knees to his chest and burying his face in them. "God, God,  
God, it hurts," he chanted. "Why can't I remember? What  
did they do to me? What did those bastards do to me?" 

Scully rushed to the bathroom to collect Dilantin,  
painkiller, and a tumbler of water, tears clogging her throat  
and stinging her eyes. She longed to hang onto her anger at  
his stubbornness, but compassion and pity were already  
swallowing it. Grabbing his arm she maneuvered him,  
nearly blind with the excruciating pain, to the couch. She  
guided the pills and water to his lips, then tugged him down  
so that his head rested on her lap. He submitted to her  
ministrations without protest or suggestive remarks, the  
agony robbing him of the ability to connect with anything  
outside himself. He simply curled into a ball and shivered. 

Scully ran her fingers through his hair, gently massaging  
his scalp and the flesh at his temple, palm smoothing up  
and down the curve of his spine. All the while she kept up a  
patter of low, soothing words while one eye watched the  
clock. After nearly twenty minutes she felt a subtle  
loosening of the muscles across his back and shoulders and  
his breathing slowed from harsh pants to a more normal  
level of respiration. By the time thirty minutes had ticked  
away, his eyes were fluttering, his body slack and heavy  
against her as he fought the pull of a drugged sleep. 

Immediate crisis past, Scully's ire reasserted itself.  
"Mulder, this is ridiculous," she said tersely, though her  
hands continued to soothe. "You have to back off, take  
things at a slower pace." 

He blinked, struggled against an unwieldy tongue. "Can't,  
Scully. Don't know how." 

Worry and frustration honed her reply to a razor's edge.  
"Well, you'd better learn. You can't continue this way, it's  
going to kill you." 

His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "I think that's the  
whole idea."  
  


X-Files Office  
Monday  
10:27 a.m.  
  


"So this is the infamous X-Files division. Nice digs,  
Spooky." 

Mulder looked up, pleasure replacing irritation at the sight  
of Digger lounging in the open doorway. Leaning back in  
his chair, he laced his fingers behind his head and grinned.  
"Home of the FBI's most unwanted. What brings you to no  
man's land, Digger?" 

"Brought you a present," he replied, producing a tall cup of  
Starbuck's coffee from behind his back. 

Mulder sat forward, one hand extended and a look of  
unbridled lust on his face. "Forget that crap about Greeks  
bearing gifts. Whatever you want, I'll do it," he promised  
fervently. 

Digger's smile widened and he stepped inside, chortling  
when Mulder snatched the cup from him, downed several  
long swallows, and sighed blissfully. "Don't they give you  
guys coffeemakers down here?" 

Mulder made a face, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to  
indicate a machine bearing a nearly full pot. "Yeah.  
Trouble is, Scully got sneaky and switched the regular for  
decaf -- as if I wouldn't notice. Stuff tastes like the inside of  
my running shoes." 

Digger quirked an eyebrow. "I'm not even going to ask."  
He looked suspiciously at Mulder and frowned. "Wait a  
minute -- why did she do that? Are you sure you're allowed  
to drink that stuff?" 

Mulder waved his hand, chugging more coffee as if fearing  
Digger would take it back. "Doc just said I should avoid  
caffeine, one cup won't kill me," he said airily. 

Digger groaned and dropped into a chair. "Great, just great!  
First I slip you the case file and now I'm poisoning you.  
Your partner is gonna shoot me!" 

For some reason Mulder found his words incredibly funny,  
nearly spewing the coffee out of his mouth with barely  
contained mirth. "Already been there, Digger," he gasped,  
swiping at his eyes with his sleeve. "Don't worry, she's a  
doctor, so at least she can patch you back up afterward." 

Digger shook his head. "I'll say it again -- I'm not even  
going to ask." He extracted a manila folder tucked beneath  
his arm and tossed it onto Mulder's desk. "The lowdown on  
Traci Pritchard, for what it's worth. There's not much to  
distinguish her from the others. Is Dana doing the  
autopsy?" 

"As we speak." Mulder flipped the file open and scanned  
the first page. "Someone talk to the husband?" 

"Yeah. Gentry is typing up the report now, he'll fax it when  
he's done. From what I hear, you won't get much. The guy  
was pretty broken up. Evidently they'd been trying to get  
pregnant for almost five years. I don't think he'd adjusted to  
the idea of losing the baby, and now his wife..." 

Mulder gazed up from the folder, one finger tapping his  
lower lip. "Did she have fertility treatments?" 

Digger straightened. "I don't know. Why? Is it important?" 

Mulder shrugged, then sighed. "Probably not. I just  
thought..." 

The strident ringing of the phone interrupted his reply. He  
scooped it from its cradle while shooting Digger an  
apologetic look. 

"Mulder... Thanks, Jerry, I'll be right up." 

"Sounds like my cue to hit the road," Digger observed. 

He stood and shoved both hands into his pockets, watching  
while Mulder donned his jacket and straightened his tie.  
"Got an interview with the woman who handled the genetic  
counseling for all the dead women," Mulder explained,  
picking up a notepad and heading for the door. "Scully and  
Skinner have me grounded, so I arranged for her to come  
here." 

Digger clucked his tongue disapprovingly, so that Mulder  
paused and glanced back. His friend stood beside the desk  
with arms folded and a disappointed expression. 

"What?" 

Digger slowly shook his head. "Spooky Mulder, greatest  
criminal profiler of our time. He can tell you what a killer  
ate for breakfast, but he can't pull the wool over the eyes of  
his own partner." 

Mulder's eyes narrowed. "What in the hell are you talking  
about, Costanza?" 

Digger picked up the empty Starbuck's cup, strolled over,  
and waggled it under Mulder's nose. "Evidence, my friend.  
You can't commit the perfect crime if you leave behind  
irrefutable proof of your guilt. From what I've seen of your  
partner, she doesn't miss much." 

Mulder grimaced, accepting the cup. "You have no idea,  
Digger. No idea."  
  


Conference Room  
Monday  
10:40 a.m. 

Mulder poured Miriam Richardson a cup of coffee,  
surreptitiously studying her profile. She was not at all what  
he'd envisioned, though he wasn't sure the implications of  
that discovery. Somehow the name Miriam had conjured up  
an image of a middle-aged woman wearing glasses and a  
conservative suit. The reality was younger than he, blonde,  
very pretty...and confined to a wheelchair. 

"I appreciate you coming all the way over here," he said,  
setting the cup by her hand and sinking into a chair directly  
across the table. "I'm afraid it was asking a lot, I didn't  
realize..." 

"Agent Mulder, I haven't had the use of my legs since the  
day I was born. Despite that fact -- because of it, actually --  
I have become quite adept at functioning in a world  
designed for two-legged people. I was perfectly capable of  
coming down for the interview. I'm here, aren't I?" 

Mulder blushed a little at the hint of exasperation in her  
tone. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. Normally, I  
would have come to the hospital to talk with you, but as I  
mentioned on the phone, I'm on restricted duty while I  
recover from an illness." 

Miriam sipped the coffee. "And as I told you, I'm happy to  
help any way I can. But frankly, I'm baffled as to how I  
could possibly provide information for a murder  
investigation." 

"Murders, actually. Six so far." He pushed a small stack of  
photos across the table. "Ms. Williams, do you recognize  
any of these women?" 

Green eyes returned his gaze intently before she bent her  
head to consider the photos. Mulder heard the sharp intake  
of breath, watched her fingers tremble as she sifted through  
the pile one by one. When she lifted her head, the horror  
distorting her face appeared genuine. 

"I know these women -- all of them! Are they...? These  
women were victims of the Pro-Choice murderer? Is that  
it?" 

Mulder kept his expression carefully neutral. "You're  
saying you didn't know? I find that hard to believe, Ms.  
Williams, this has turned into a highly publicized case." 

Miriam bit her lip and shook her head, eyes dropping to the  
photos. "I'm not one to watch television, and I don't get a  
paper, Agent Mulder. I'd heard about the murders, of  
course, but nothing specific. Even if I'd heard a name I'm  
not sure I would have made the connection. I see so many  
people every day, and I'm not good with names. But  
faces..." 

Mulder leaned closer, arms braced on the polished surface  
of the tabletop. "So you do know them." 

Her fingers moved restlessly, flipping through the smiling  
faces again. "Yes. I counseled them, along with their  
husbands." Her head snapped up, a line marring the skin of  
her brow. "But you already knew that. Am I...? Am I some  
kind of suspect, Agent Mulder?" 

*You were before you came in here on wheels instead of  
feet. But maybe that just means you had help.* 

"One of the best tools for solving a crime of this nature is to  
establish a common thread between victims, Ms.  
Williams," Mulder said smoothly. "So far, you are the only  
link to all six women. That makes you a key figure in this  
investigation." He gestured to the pictures. "Can you tell  
me anything about them? Was there something that stands  
out in your memory about your sessions?" 

Miriam licked her lips, face pale. "It was all pretty routine.  
If I remember correctly, all of them had a positive AFP test  
and followed up with an amnio. I gave them an idea of  
what to expect if the child was carried to term, and statistics  
for reoccurrence in subsequent pregnancies. As you already  
know, all six women opted to abort." 

Something in her voice caught Mulder's ear. "That simple?  
Was it a joint decision, did the couples agree?" 

Miriam pursed her lips. "It's a very emotional issue, Agent  
Mulder. Of course they were devastated and in some cases  
agreement was not reached without some discord." Her  
frown deepened and she sorted through the photos yet  
again. "There was something a little...odd." 

"Go on." 

She hesitated. "As I said, this is a decision that is never  
reached dispassionately." She made a face. "Believe me,  
I've seen it all, right down to a knock down, drag out fight  
when one couple couldn't reach a resolution. But in each of  
these cases I sensed an additional emotion from the women.  
Something I'm not accustomed to seeing, at least not in  
such magnitude." 

Mulder fought the impulse to rub the tense muscles at the  
base of his neck, settled for playing with the cap of his pen.  
"And that emotion was...?" 

Miriam's eyes looked beyond him to memories inspired by  
the photos. "Fear, Agent Mulder. Now don't misunderstand,  
a certain amount of fear is completely normal and even  
expected in these cases. Parents are distraught not only over  
the fate of their unborn child, but those yet to be conceived.  
But this...this was different. Each of these women  
experienced an extremely high level of anxiety at the news  
of their child's defect and made a snap decision to abort,  
even if their husbands were reticent. In one particular  
case..." She rifled through the pictures, pulling one to the  
forefront. "This woman. Jane Gran...Gram..." 

"Garson. Janet Garson," Mulder filled in. 

"Yes. When her husband expressed doubt about going  
through with an abortion she became nearly hysterical. I  
thought she was going to have a panic attack." Miriam blew  
out a long gust of air, pressing two fingers to her lips. "I felt  
so sorry for him. They'd had a very difficult time  
conceiving and he couldn't understand why she would be so  
quick to terminate the pregnancy." 

Mulder's fingers froze in the process of dismantling the  
pen. "She'd had trouble conceiving?" 

If Miriam noticed the edge to his voice, she didn't show it.  
"Yes. I think her husband said they'd tried for over three  
years before finally having success." 

Mulder reached out to tap Janet Garson's face with one  
long finger. "You're sure it was this one -- Janet Garson?" 

Now Miriam did look puzzled. "Yes, I'm positive. Why?" 

Mulder ignored the question, filing this latest revelation  
away in a corner of his mind until later when he could  
examine it without interruption. "How long have you been  
doing this, Ms. Williams? Genetic counseling, I mean." 

"Um...nearly seven years now, I guess. I started at the  
hospital in '92." 

"Must be hard to just provide information without  
influencing the decision," Mulder mused, going back to  
destroying the pen but watching her from the corner of one  
eye. "What's your opinion on abortion, Ms. Williams?" 

The query seemed to sandbag her. Miriam's hand jerked,  
sending several photos skidding across the table and nearly  
spilling her coffee. "What?" 

"Your feelings about abortion -- I assume you have them?"  
Mulder persisted. 

For the first time he saw real anger sweep across her face,  
twisting her features into someone he barely recognized.  
"What does that have to do with anything? I do my job, my  
personal feelings are irrelevant." 

"You, and your job, are the one thing six dead women have  
in common," Mulder replied coldly. "That makes it  
relevant. Please answer the question." 

Miriam clasped her hands together until the knuckles were  
white, her eyes hard as flint. "*Personally*” -- she  
emphasized the word – “I don't condone it. I hold life  
sacred, Agent Mulder, whether that be genetically  
imperfect babies *or* their parents. I think everyone  
deserves a chance. Does that answer your question?" 

Mulder nodded as an idea slowly took shape. "You said  
you've always been paralyzed. Would you mind telling me  
the cause?" 

She dropped her gaze, suddenly fascinated with the pattern  
of her entwined fingers. "I have Spina Bifida," she  
mumbled, the words barely audible. 

"In other words, had your mother chosen as these women  
did, you wouldn't be here today," Mulder pressed. 

Miriam didn't respond, but her nails dug crescent-shaped  
gouges into the backs of her hands. "Are we finished here?  
I need to get back to work." 

"For now." Mulder took out a sheet of paper listing six  
dates and handed it to her. 

She glanced at it briefly before fixing him with an  
impatient stare. "What's this?" 

"The dates that each of those six women went missing," he  
replied, standing. "I'll need you to provide written  
confirmation of where you were in each case. Witnesses  
would be helpful. You can email it or fax it -- I've listed the  
information at the top." 

Miriam pushed herself away from the table and pivoted her  
chair to face him as he opened the conference room door.  
"You must be kidding! You can't honestly consider me a  
suspect in their deaths! I can't even walk, how would I  
possibly pull it off?" 

Mulder shrugged. "You said it yourself, Ms. Williams.  
You've become quite adept at functioning in a world  
designed for two-legged people. Just get me that  
information, and we'll take it from there." 

She wheeled past him angrily, brushing off his attempt to  
help her maneuver around a chair. Mulder followed her to  
the elevators, trying to ignore a faint throbbing that  
materialized just over his right eye.  
  


Hoover Cafeteria  
Monday  
10:42 a.m.  
  


"I've seen happier faces on a corpse -- but then why am I  
telling *you* that?" 

Scully left off her contemplation of a whole-wheat bagel  
and attempted a smile. It was weak and insubstantial, but  
considering her current mood she gave herself an 'A' for  
effort. 

"You really know how to sweet talk a girl, Digger," she  
said dryly. 

"Part of my charm," he agreed. "Mind some company?" 

Actually, a large part of her did. Traci Pritchard's autopsy  
left her feeling disgruntled and out of sorts, emotions  
rubbed raw and too close to the surface. She couldn't tell  
Digger that, so she simply inclined her head and sipped her  
coffee. 

"Rough morning?" he asked shrewdly, slipping into a  
plastic chair and studying her face. 

"A bit," Scully replied evasively. "I was at Quantico by six  
to autopsy Traci Pritchard. Figured I'd give myself a jump-  
start before going over the results with Mulder. He's not  
supposed to have caffeine right now, so we've only got  
decaf in the office." 

For some reason Digger looked extremely uncomfortable at  
that, shifting his gaze to take in a group of four agents at a  
nearby table. Figuring he was still feeling guilty over  
giving Mulder the casefile, Scully laid a reassuring hand on  
his arm. 

"He's doing all right, Digger." 

Black eyes leaped back to her face and a frown creased his  
brow. "Yeah. He acts like the same old Spooky that drove  
all of us in the VCS crazy. But I gotta admit, seeing him the  
other day threw me for a loop. He looked like..." 

Scully tilted her head. "Like?" 

"Like when he was Patterson's golden boy, working 90  
hour weeks. Mulder was the Bureau's most valuable natural  
resource, and they exploited him every chance they got."  
Digger's fingers curled into a fist and he grit his teeth.  
"Patterson nearly killed him, shoving one case after another  
at him, nonstop. He got out just in time." 

Scully traced a coffee stain on the table with her index  
finger. "He hasn't said much about those days. He did admit  
that by the time he found the X-Files he was close to a  
breakdown." 

Digger huffed a humorless laugh. "Patterson was a cold,  
manipulative son of a bitch," he said tightly. "He knew  
once he brought out pictures of the victims Mulder could  
never say no. He'd drive himself, not eating, not sleeping,  
until he could barely function." 

Scully nodded, remembering. "I can imagine. I've seen a  
glimpse of it, during certain cases." She hesitated, then  
continued. "It seems like you and Mulder were good  
friends, Digger. Why did you lose touch?" 

Digger shrugged. "Kerri and I had him over for dinner once  
or twice after he transferred but it was... awkward. I think  
at first he was still healing and then he went through that  
hypnotic regression crap and..." he broke off, obviously  
embarrassed. 

"Look, I don't mean to sound harsh, and what he does in his  
private life is just that -- private. But afterward, he changed.  
It was like he'd found religion or something. Even though  
he'd always been driven, intense, at least he'd expressed it  
in ways I could understand. But this..." Digger shook his  
head ruefully. "Little green men," he muttered. 

Scully's smile was less forced. "I understand, Digger. I  
must admit that when I was assigned to be Mulder's partner  
I wasn't sure what to expect." She chuckled. "A brilliant  
crackpot, I guess. It didn't take long for me to realize that  
crackpot was the best agent I'd ever worked with. And  
though his theories may be unorthodox, I've seen things  
during the past seven years that simply can't be explained  
by conventional means." 

"I'll take your word for that. And I can't deny that the X-  
Files, and your partnership, seems to agree with him. I'm  
glad to have you both on this case. Maybe we'll finally be  
able to put an end to this nightmare." 

Digger stood, placing both hands in the small of his back  
and stretching until his spine gave a satisfying crack.  
"Better get moving. Jeffreys has me running down some  
background info on Traci Pritchard." 

"Good luck," Scully replied. "Maybe you can find another  
thread to tie these women together." 

He saluted, grinning impudently. "I'll do my best. And by  
the way, you won't find Spooky in the office. Said he was  
interviewing someone -- some kind of counselor?" 

Scully sat up straighter. "He didn't leave the building, did  
he?" 

Digger chuckled. "Take it easy, Dana. He's behaving  
himself. Said you and Skinner have him on a short leash so  
he asked the woman to come here." 

Scully settled back into her chair looking a little bit  
sheepish and a lot relieved. "Trust Mulder to do the  
unexpected and follow orders," she muttered. 

Digger laughed. "He wasn't kidding when he said nothing  
slips past you. I can see he's in good hands. Later, Dana." 

She watched him saunter out of the cafeteria, still  
snickering to himself, before standing up and collecting her  
briefcase. She hadn't been entirely truthful about her  
motives for getting coffee. Yes, she'd felt gummy eyed and  
in dire need of caffeine, but that was only half the problem.  
Mulder was the second half. 

Scully tossed her empty cup into the trash and made her  
way to the elevator, nodding now and then to a familiar  
face. Once inside she slumped against the far wall and  
blankly watched the glowing numbers count down to her  
destination. The office was blessedly deserted, as Digger  
had predicted. She sat at her desk and carefully took out the  
Pritchard file, laying it on the blotter and arranging the  
contents so that none of the papers protruded. That  
accomplished, she laced her fingers together and dropped  
her forehead on top of them. 

*Get it together, Dana. He sees you like this and he won't  
let it go of it* 

Autopsying the victim of a violent crime was never an easy  
task, but she'd developed a certain professional detachment  
over her years as a pathologist. Maintaining that  
detachment was as tricky as walking a fence -- too much  
and you risked forgetting the humanity of your subject, too  
little and their faces haunted your dreams. Traci Pritchard's  
autopsy left her listing dangerously toward the latter, in  
spite of her best efforts to avoid it. 

The total violation of the woman's body could only be  
likened to a rape, the brutal taking of something intimate  
and private with casual disregard. The fact that Traci  
exhibited no signs of struggle, of resistance, only increased  
Scully's discomfort. Could she have acquiesced so  
completely, so easily? The flesh of her wrists and ankles  
was smooth and unblemished, no ligature marks to suggest  
she'd been restrained. The preliminary tox screen was  
negative but for a mild sedative, no evidence of heavy  
narcotics or poison. Nothing that would have caused her to  
lose consciousness or left her defenseless. To all  
appearances, Traci Pritchard had willingly submitted to her  
fate. 

Why? 

The office door swung abruptly open and Scully jerked  
quickly upright, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and  
flipping open the file folder. If he'd noticed her morose  
contemplation, Mulder gave no sign. He did a slight double  
take, as if surprised by her presence, and slid into his chair. 

"Pretty fast slicing and dicing, Scully. Wasn't expecting  
you before noon." 

Scully winced at his choice of words but chose to say  
nothing. "I ran into Digger in the cafeteria. He said you  
were interviewing Miriam Richardson. How did it go?" 

Mulder snorted. "She was...not what I expected. But before  
I get into that, tell me about Traci Pritchard. Find anything  
we can use?" 

"I wish I could say yes, but I'm afraid my findings won't  
differ from any of the others. The tox screen was clear  
except for a low level of Valium, and there was no trace  
evidence of any kind. From what I could see, she wasn't  
even restrained, Mulder. Frankly, I have no explanation for  
it." 

Mulder rubbed both eyes with the heels of his hands,  
reclining in his chair until it wobbled precariously. "You're  
sure she wasn't given anything else? Maybe something that  
wouldn't show up on your average tox screen?" 

"I'm having the lab run a few additional tests," Scully  
replied. "But I must admit I'm not hopeful. There were no  
needle marks on the body, and that would be the most  
efficient means to drug her without a struggle. The Valium  
was administered orally, there were traces in her stomach."  
She sighed. "Sorry I can't offer more insights." 

Mulder dropped his hands and eyed her closely. "You can't  
find something that doesn't exist, Scully. I appreciate you  
conducting this autopsy, I know it couldn't have been easy  
for you." 

His gentle tone made her inexplicably angry. "It was an  
autopsy, Mulder, just like any other. You've never thanked  
me before, why start now?" 

As she'd hoped, his temper flared. "All victims are not  
created equal, Scully, so spare me the Ice Queen act! This  
woman had her unborn child ripped from her body, then  
was discarded like a candy wrapper! It bothers the hell out  
of me, so forgive me if I underestimated the depth of your  
ability to distance yourself." 

They glared at each other for a moment before Mulder blew  
out an exasperated breath of air and turned to pick up his  
phone. He stabbed the buttons with his finger, then reached  
up to massage his brow. 

"Digger? It's Mulder." 

Scully glanced away, arms folded defensively across her  
chest and lips compressed to a thin line. She was aware that  
she'd deliberately picked a fight with Mulder to short  
circuit his concern, and was slightly ashamed of the tactic.  
Truth was, she could handle the anger -- it pushed back her  
own feelings of horror and loss to a manageable level and  
sharpened her focus. It was his tenderness and solicitude  
that threatened to take her apart, piece by piece. 

"...don't care what Jeffreys has you doing, I need you to  
drop it and check something out for me." 

Scully frowned, turned to face Mulder more completely,  
but he'd swiveled in his chair to give her a view of his back. 

"You remember what you said about Traci Pritchard? That  
she'd had difficulty conceiving? Well, according to Miriam  
Richardson, Janet Garson suffered the same difficulty."  
Mulder paused, listening intently. "Yeah, the genetics  
counselor. I need you to see if any of the other victims..." 

"Mulder." 

Scully was at his side, one hand on his arm. Mulder  
glanced back over his shoulder, brows dipping, and held up  
a hand to stall her off. 

"See if any of the other victims had..." 

"MULDER." 

The urgency in Scully's voice broke through, but he  
scowled. "Hang on a minute, Digger." He covered the  
mouthpiece with his palm and turned impatiently to face  
her. 

"Can't it wait a minute? I'm..." 

"It took Elizabeth Brentwood years to conceive. Dr.  
Lathrop called this her 'miracle baby.'" 

Mulder stared at her with narrowed eyes for a long  
moment, then removed his hand from the phone. "Digger?  
Add Elizabeth Brentwood to that list. Yeah, Scully just told  
me. I need you to check the others, see if they fit the  
pattern. And find out if they underwent fertility  
treatments." 

He paused again as Digger rambled on the other end of the  
line and his eyes crinkled with amusement. "Just making  
sure you live up to the name, Douggie." 

He hung up a moment later and regarded Scully without  
speaking. 

"Mulder, there was no way to know that bit of information  
would turn out to be significant," she said heatedly. "It was  
an offhanded remark by Dr. Lathrop. He was trying to  
apologize for flying off the handle with me by explaining  
that Elizabeth Brentwood had been a special patient. Under  
the circumstances, I didn't feel it merited any further  
discussion." 

"Scully, that is such bullshit and you know it! In any  
investigation, the most innocuous detail can turn out to be  
vitally important. That's why one person doesn't make that  
judgement. You had an obligation to include that  
information in your report, yet you chose not to. Why?" 

Scully fixed him with eyes like blue ice. "I already  
explained that." 

Mulder shook his head. "And I'm not buying it. Scully, you  
are too good an agent to disregard protocol for no reason."  
He softened, chuckling ruefully. "That's *my* job. You  
must have had a reason not to tell me." He reached out to  
snag her hand. "Despite what you say, I know how close to  
home this case hits you, and..." 

She jerked her hand out of his grasp, tucking it under the  
other arm. "My problem is not this case, Mulder, it's *you*.  
I didn't mention Elizabeth's infertility because I knew you'd  
react just the way you are now -- treating me with kid  
gloves as if I'm going to fall to pieces! Well, I'm not! I'm  
perfectly capable of putting aside any personal feelings I  
have and I'd appreciate it if you'd do the same." 

She braced herself for a sarcastic retort that never came.  
Mulder blew out a long breath of air and shook his head, a  
bittersweet smile curving his mouth. "Seven years, Scully.  
Don't you know by now that to me, everything about you is  
personal?" 

She hated it when he did that. Mulder could be an arrogant,  
self-centered bastard at times, but he could also speak the  
only words she needed to hear. Scully heaved her own sigh  
and let her eyes slip shut in resignation, her wrath neatly  
defused. 

"I just want you to trust me, Mulder," she said quietly.  
"This case isn't about me. I'm not likely to lose sight of  
that." 

When Mulder didn't respond, she opened her eyes. He was  
staring at her, but through her, an expression on his face  
that was both a grimace of pain and a frown of  
concentration. 

"Mulder?" 

He made a cutting gesture with one hand, then pressed both  
palms against his temples. "You said this case isn't about  
you, Scully, but maybe that's not completely true.  
Maybe..." 

"Mulder, don't. Whatever it is, it'll come to you later.  
You need to step back..." 

"NO! Scully, what if it's more than just a coincidence those  
women were infertile? What if the cause of their infertility  
links them together?" 

His eyes were squeezed tightly shut now, and Scully saw  
moisture at the corners as if he were fighting back tears of  
pain. She was torn between insisting he stop and helping  
him follow the thread he'd uncovered. 

"What do you mean?" 

"You didn't start out infertile, Scully. They stole your ova  
during your abduction." Mulder's voice was low, almost  
guttural as he choked out the words. 

"I don't see..." 

"We need to check MUFON, see if any of the victims are  
registered. And we need to find out if they were ever  
missing, have absences they couldn't account for," he  
pressed on. He was gasping now, face buried in his hands  
as he rocked slightly back and forth in a hopeless effort to  
soothe himself. 

Scully crouched down beside him, one hand cupping the  
back of his neck, the other resting on his knee. "Mulder, are  
you saying what I think you're saying?" 

"Abductees, Scully," he gritted out between clenched teeth.  
"I think our victims may all have been abductees." His  
voice trailed off to a whisper and he shuddered helplessly  
against a fresh assault of agony. 

Scully drew his head down to her shoulder and ran her  
hands over the bunched muscles of his back. Tremors broke  
through his body in waves as he rode out the pain. She  
comforted him as best she could, but his words swirled  
dizzily through her head and inside she felt strangely numb.  
  
  
  


Alexandria  
Monday  
1:30 p.m.  
  


Scully pulled her car smoothly to the curb near the front  
door of Hegal Place, grateful for the proximity. Mulder sat  
rigidly in the seat beside her, one hand wrapped around the  
plastic door handle in a white-knuckled grip, the other  
curled around his midsection. Though his eyes were hidden  
behind a pair of Ray-Bans, the tension in his facial muscles  
testified that they were tightly shut against even the filtered  
light. 

When he didn't move, she got out of the car and circled  
around to open his door. The slight sheen of sweat across  
his forehead disturbed her, but not as much as his lack of  
comment when she unbuckled the seatbelt. 

"Come on, partner. Almost there," she urged gently. 

She could see him prepare for the additional discomfort  
that motion would bring -- shoulders hunched, jaw set. He  
swung both feet to the pavement and pushed himself  
gingerly upright, biting down hard on his lip and swaying  
slightly before her arm around his waist steadied him. 

"Take it slow," Scully murmured. "Quick, sudden  
movements will only provoke the nausea." 

"Yeah. I've noticed," he said tightly. 

Somehow she maneuvered him up the steps, into the  
elevator, and down the hallway. She could see him walking  
with cat feet as if the impact of every step went straight  
through his head. He draped himself against the doorjamb,  
brow pressed to the wood, as she fumbled for his key and  
let them inside. 

"Where are they?" she asked shortly as he wobbled over to  
the couch. 

"Bedroom." 

Scully found the amber vial on the nightstand, cap still  
askew. She collected two capsules and detoured to the  
kitchen to fill a tumbler with water. Mulder was slumped  
on the couch, jacket off, tie undone, and one arm thrown  
across his eyes. When the cushions dipped as she lowered  
herself beside him, he extended one hand so that she could  
place first pills and then water into it. 

Scully leaned back, studying his profile from the corner of  
her eye as she bit back the myriad of comments his  
suffering precluded her from making. Mulder was the only  
person she'd ever known who could inspire her to feel sorry  
for him and furious with him at the same time. 

"Go ahead." 

His voice startled her from her fuming. She glanced over at  
him, but he hadn't moved. 

"What?" 

"Go ahead. I know you're pissed off at me, so you might as  
well get it out of your system." Weariness and resignation,  
but not even a trace of the usual black humor. 

"Mulder, I don't think now is the time to..." 

"Fine. I'll do it. You should have stopped pushing yourself  
when you felt the headache coming on, Mulder. You  
should have let me drive you home after the first time you  
puked. You should have had the damn pills with you at the  
office, not sitting next to your bed. Have I left anything  
out?" 

Scully rolled her tongue around the inside of her cheek.  
"No, that about covers it." 

No sarcastic comeback. No razor-edged wit. Just silence. 

"Mulder, I don't know what you expect me to say that I  
haven't already said. You know how I feel about you  
continuing to drive yourself over this case." Scully tried to  
keep her tone reasonable, to banish the frustration. 

"It's easier to think of it that way, isn't it, Scully?" he said,  
sotto voice. 

She frowned. "What does that mean?" When he didn't  
answer, she tugged the arm from his eyes. "What did you  
mean, Mulder?" 

Mulder blinked, reflexes already slowing down as the drugs  
hit his bloodstream. "Telling yourself that this case is the  
source of my headaches and everything will be fine once  
it's over. But we both know that's not true, don't we?" 

Scully's eyes skittered away from his face. She didn't want  
to answer, yet realized her silence was all the reply he  
needed. Mulder shifted toward her, grimacing. 

"We should have expected something like this, Scully," he  
said bitterly. "The note pointing you to the DOD, the card  
key, getting me out of there without a hitch. All just a little  
too convenient, don't you think?" 

"You mean it was a set up. That they intended me to find  
you and get you out of there. Do you think Diana knew?" 

The pain that flared briefly in his eyes had nothing to do  
with the headache. "Doesn't really matter. The point is, they  
allowed you to rescue me because they knew something we  
didn't. Namely that they were holding all the cards." 

Scully sat up straighter, her eyes hard. "Then we'll show  
them they're mistaken. They've always underestimated you,  
Mulder, and this is no different." 

Mulder leaned forward and scrubbed his face with his  
hands before raising bleary eyes. "Don't you see, Scully?  
They finally found a way to solve the Fox Mulder problem  
without drawing unwanted attention. Murder can be so  
messy. Better to just return me, broken. That way I'm still  
alive, but useless." 

"Stop it," Scully said thickly. "That's defeatist talk, Mulder.  
You've never backed down from a fight, and now is no  
time to start." 

A jagged laugh, and he shook his head. "How, Scully? How  
do I fight them when they've taken away all the tools? My  
memory is shot to hell; I can't seem to access the most  
basic information I know I possess. And every time I try to  
use inductive reasoning -- logic, intuition, or whatever  
blend of both that somehow takes me to where I need to go  
on a case like this -- I get a headache. And not just any  
headache, but the mother of all migraines. The kind that  
makes you want to bang your head on the floor just to make  
it stop. How do I fight that, Scully? Where am I supposed  
to start?" 

"They did something to you," Scully replied stubbornly. "If  
we can understand what that was, we can begin to figure  
out how to reverse it." 

"Palermo couldn't find it! You admitted he's run every  
diagnostic test possible. And what about that blood you  
sent to the Bureau? Did they come up with anything?" 

Scully caught her lip between her teeth with a slight shake  
of her head. 

Mulder slumped back into the cushions, eyes slipping shut  
to ward off the pity in her gaze. "This job is all I have,  
Scully. My only avenue for finding out what happened to  
my sister. God knows, my mother has never provided any  
answers." He pressed one palm to his forehead. "I have to  
be able to work." 

Scully took in the slight slur to the words, the loose sprawl  
of his posture. "Are the pills working?" 

"Yeah. Few more minutes an' I won' be able to tie m' shoe  
laces let alone catch a killer. Go back to work, Scully. Be  
fine." 

Scully hesitated, unhappy with the despondency in his  
answer but at a loss to combat it. "You should be in bed,"  
she said, then mentally kicked herself for providing such an  
opening. 

Mulder was either too drugged or too depressed to follow  
through with the requisite innuendo. "'M comfortable here."  
He slid to the right and curled onto his side, bringing both  
feet up to brush her thighs. "Go see 'f Digger got lucky 'n  
stop hovering." 

Scully huffed, exasperated. "I'll stop back after work to see  
how you're doing and give you an update," she said. 

When he didn't respond, she collected the water glass and  
refilled it, setting it back on the coffee table in case he grew  
thirsty. His breathing had already slipped into the deep  
rhythm of sleep, so she tugged his blanket up from the foot  
of the couch until it covered his shoulders. He didn't twitch  
when she donned her coat and left, locking the door  
securely behind her. 

Settled in her car, keys in ignition, Scully let her head rest  
against the cold plastic of the steering wheel. After seven  
years of seeing Mulder weather a plethora of life-  
threatening illnesses and injuries she'd come to view the  
man as practically indestructible. Despite enduring the very  
worst that life could throw at a person, he was like the  
Energizer Bunny -- he kept going, and going... 

But now, in the solitude of the government issue Ford  
Taurus, she admitted she was afraid. Her science, her  
medicine, had fallen short of this particular hurdle and she  
felt helpless to scale it. She could protest all she liked, but  
she couldn't deny the truth of Mulder's statement. He  
needed the work -- like air, it was what sustained him. If  
the Consortium truly had found the means to cripple him,  
to take that away... 

Maybe quitting now was a moot point. Maybe they'd  
already won.  
  


Violent Crimes Unit  
Monday  
4:53 p.m.  
  


"Spooky strikes again," Digger said, motioning for Scully  
to take a seat next to his desk. 

Scully glanced uneasily around her before complying,  
bombarded with memories of time in the bullpen. She  
could vividly recall Mulder's face the day A.D. Kersh had  
assigned her to the case with Peyton Ritter. Bored and  
frustrated, his brilliant mind stagnating under a deluge of  
mindless, repetitive busywork, she'd seen just how much  
supporting her cost him. He'd belonged on that case as  
much as she, and in the end, his absence had nearly killed  
her. 

"Dana? You with me?" 

Flushing, Scully pulled herself back to the task at hand.  
"Sorry, Digger. What were you saying?" 

He scrutinized her face, his own creased with worry.  
"Mulder is okay, isn't he? I know you said his going home  
was no big deal, but it isn't like Spooky to let a headache  
stop him, especially when he's hot on the scent." 

She knew his concern was genuine, but hesitated revealing  
too much. Mulder could be an intensely private person, and  
he despised feeling weak or helpless. She wasn't sure he'd  
appreciate Digger knowing the extent of his illness. 

"He'll be fine. He took his meds and was sleeping like a  
baby when I left him," she said, wishing she felt the  
certainty she projected. "Now, what do you have for me?" 

Digger turned back to his computer, eyes lighting up like a  
chocoholic presented with a double fudge brownie delight.  
"Like I said, Mulder was dead on. I found out that  
Elizabeth Brentwood, Janet Garson, Traci Pritchard, and  
Eve Roberts are all registered with MUFON." 

"What about the other two? Corrie Jenkins and Nicole  
Eddings?" 

"Their names weren't on the roster, but Nicole Eddings  
subscribes to several magazines and newsletters that deal  
with the paranormal in general and focus on UFO sightings.  
And I found a police report for the Jenkins woman, from  
'89. She disappeared from a high school camping trip and  
was missing for 48 hours. They found her wandering in the  
woods, unable to remember where she'd been. It was  
chalked up to trauma and exposure, and after being checked  
out at a local hospital she was sent home. End of story." 

Scully pressed her index finger beneath her nose. "Or not,"  
she said dryly. "Any police reports on the others?" 

"Still checking. Several have moved around quite a bit,  
which makes them harder to track. I'll let you know as soon  
as I have more." Digger shook his head ruefully. "Leave it  
to Spooky to get me involved with little green men." 

"Gray," Scully muttered automatically, scanning the  
printout Digger had handed her. 

"Huh?" 

She laughed quietly to herself. "Nothing, Digger. You did a  
good job. No wonder Mulder gave you your nickname." 

Digger shrugged. "Don't thank me. I just dig where I'm  
told. You and Mulder are the ones pointing out the location.  
How did you come up with this anyway?" 

"The fact that the women were all infertile set off some  
warning bells," Scully replied. "It defies the odds and  
we've...run across something similar in the past." 

Digger considered her words. "You think our killer has an  
axe to grind against this MUFON group, or people that  
believe in that stuff? Maybe someone close to him got  
involved and went off the deep end? I mean, you gotta be a  
little wacky to belong to a group like that, don't you?" 

Penny Northern's pale, pain-ridden face and wasted body  
flashed through Scully's mind, tightening her throat and  
stealing the breath from her lungs. "You'd be surprised,  
Digger," she replied, tucking the printout into her briefcase  
to mask the emotion. 

The hand on her arm startled her, and she looked up into  
Digger's apologetic eyes. "Did Mulder happen to mention  
that I frequently need assistance extracting my foot from  
my mouth?" 

She couldn't help smiling at the genuine remorse in his  
voice. "It's all right. You develop a pretty thick skin  
working in the X-Files division." 

"Just the same, I'm sorry. You two have gotten this  
investigation back on track, and I have no right to ridicule  
your methods or your experience. Now, what's our next  
move?" 

"I'm going to stop by Mulder's to fill him in on what we've  
learned," Scully said briskly. "Could you update Jeffreys?" 

Digger made a face. "Gonna make me suffer for that  
MUFON remark, hmm? Sure, I'll tell him." 

"We're going to want to talk to all the families, both about  
any instances of missing time and the fertility treatment  
issue. I'll need to re-examine Traci Pritchard's body, and the  
other women as well." 

Digger frowned. "You realize that'll require exhumation  
orders. The families won't be happy." 

"Can't be helped," Scully returned grimly. "If what Mulder  
is thinking pans out, each of those bodies will bear an  
unmistakable mark that irrevocably links them together." 

Digger lifted both eyebrows. "Which is?" 

She shook her head. "When I find it I'll let you know,  
Digger. I'd rather not speculate." 

He opened his mouth to protest, then sighed. "Spooky.” 

Scully stood and picked up her briefcase. "Welcome to the  
X-Files, Digger," she said wryly. "Nice to have you on  
board."  
  


FBI Headquarters  
Tuesday  
2:39 p.m.  
  


"I don't understand what this has to do with Elizabeth's  
murder." 

The words were uttered sharply, with a tone of accusation.  
The subtext was obvious -- *Why are you dragging me in  
here to ask stupid questions instead of catching my wife's  
killer?* 

Mulder tapped the yellow pad with the eraser end of his  
pencil, mentally donning kid gloves. Elizabeth Brentwood  
was the second victim, dead nearly ten months now. Steve  
Brentwood's frustration, though inconvenient, was  
understandable. 

"Mr. Brentwood -- Steve -- I realize some of these  
questions may seem totally irrelevant. Please believe me  
when I say that I would not have asked you here and  
dredged up painful memories if I didn't have good reason." 

Brentwood sighed and ran the fingers of one hand through  
unruly auburn hair. "Agent Mulder, if I had a dime for  
every time..." He shook his head. "What was the question?" 

"I asked if, to your knowledge, Elizabeth had ever  
experienced any episodes of missing time -- that is, was  
absent for a period of time without any explanation or  
memory of where she'd been?" 

Brentwood swallowed thickly. "I can't believe you're  
asking me this. Liz -- she was embarrassed, never wanted  
anyone to know." He snorted bitterly, tugging at an  
eyebrow. "Guess she won't mind now, huh?" 

Mulder waited silently, loath to exacerbate the man's pain. 

"The first time was before we were married, before I even  
knew her," he continued. "She was attending college at the  
time, a freshman at GWU. Her family was from the  
Chicago area and she was going home for spring break.  
When her parents came to pick her up at the airport, they  
discovered she'd never made the flight. Liz showed up back  
at her dorm room two days later, dazed and disoriented but  
otherwise fine. The cops and her family chalked it up to  
excessive post-finals partying." 

"And what did Liz think?" 

Brentwood pursed his lips. "She went along with the  
explanation at the time. I guess it was easier than insisting  
that she'd never had more than a couple beers. I met her  
during her junior year, and she never mentioned the  
incident. Until the second time." 

"Go ahead," Mulder encouraged gently. 

Brentwood took a sip of coffee, then glared at the cup as if  
disappointed with the contents. "We'd only been married a  
little over two years. I was out of town on business for a  
couple days. Normally when I was away I'd call Liz every  
night around 9, it was a routine we'd fallen into. She liked  
to take advantage of my absence to go out with friends, do  
some shopping, but she always made sure she was home at  
9 for my call." 

"Only this time you couldn't reach her," Mulder guessed,  
studying Brentwood's face. 

He nodded savagely. "Yeah. I cut the trip short, rushed  
home early certain something terrible had happened. I burst  
into the house only to find Liz sitting at the kitchen table,  
just staring at nothing. She didn't understand why I was  
home, in her mind I'd just left that morning. When I proved  
to her that two days had elapsed she nearly became  
hysterical." 

Mulder chewed on his lip. "It's never happened since? That  
was the last time?" 

Brentwood grit his teeth. "Wasn't that enough?" 

Mulder let that slide, glancing down at his notes. "There's  
one more question I have to ask you, Steve. I know this is a  
personal and painful subject, but it may be very important  
in our search for your wife's killer. I understand that you  
and Liz had tried to have a baby for many years before  
conceiving." 

Brentwood's brows plunged. "How in the hell did you...?  
This has gone too far, Agent Mulder. Are you finished?" 

He made a move as if to rise but Mulder's vise-like grip on  
his arm halted it. "The man who murdered your wife and  
baby is still free, Mr. Brentwood, and perfectly capable of  
killing again. I'd say we haven't gone nearly far enough,  
wouldn't you?" 

Brentwood slumped back into the chair, one trembling fist  
pressed to his lips. He raised dull eyes to Mulder's face,  
then averted them. "Yes," he said woodenly. "We tried for  
seven years." 

Mulder released his grip, softening his voice. "Did either  
one of you go to a doctor?" 

His tongue snaked out to moisten dry lips. "Yeah. They  
told us Liz was sterile. That it would be impossible for her  
to have a child. Liz was convinced that it had something to  
do with those two mysterious disappearances. She had  
some crazy ideas about what might have happened to her  
during those times." 

"She thought she'd been abducted by aliens." 

Brentwood flushed, eyes darting back to Mulder's face. "It  
was very traumatic for her," he replied defensively. "She  
couldn't remember where she'd been, but she'd have these  
really strange dreams. Then one day she saw a television  
show with people describing similar experiences. At the  
end there was a number to call for more information, and  
before I knew it she'd joined this off the wall group  
called..." 

"MUFON," Mulder filled in. "I'm actually quite familiar  
with them, Mr. Brentwood. It's legitimate." 

Brentwood eyed him suspiciously, but continued. "I think  
someone in the group gave her the name of the fertility  
specialist. I was skeptical, especially considering the  
source, but Liz was so excited and hopeful..." He buried his  
face in his hands, then dragged them down until they were  
steepled beneath his chin. "I was stunned when it actually  
worked, when Liz told me she was pregnant. Stunned and  
ecstatic. Our dream, the one we'd hardly dared to consider,  
was actually coming true." 

On very unstable footing now, Mulder proceeded  
cautiously. "Then you discovered there was a problem." 

Brentwood's eyes squeezed shut and his head moved  
slowly from side to side. "When they said Down's  
Syndrome, I couldn't believe it," he whispered. "I was sure  
it must be a mistake. But the amniocentesis confirmed it." 

"So you and Liz went to see Miriam Richardson?" 

"She presented our...options. Not that Liz would listen.  
>From the moment the first test indicated a possible defect,  
she was a bundle of nerves. And when it was confirmed...  
Liz freaked. She insisted abortion was our only recourse,  
wouldn't even consider anything else." 

Mulder ran his thumb along the side of one finger. "Did she  
tell you why?" 

Brentwood's eyes were steel. "She was afraid. Convinced  
that something horrible had been done to her when she was  
*abducted* -- he pronounced the word with distaste -- "and  
that the baby would turn out to be some kind of monster.  
Are we done now, Agent Mulder?" 

"Just one more question. Could you tell me the name of the  
fertility specialist you and Liz saw?" 

"Paxton. Dr. Sean Paxton. His office is in Arlington." 

Mulder jotted down the name, pressing the heel of his free  
hand to his temple. He took a deep breath, then met  
Brentwood's gaze. "Thank you for your patience, Steve. I  
have one more request before you get out of here, and it  
won't be easy to hear." 

Brentwood's fire faded to weary resignation. "What is it?" 

"We've made some headway on the case pursuing a new  
avenue of investigation. Doing so requires that we examine  
your wife's body again. I need you to sign the exhumation  
order." 

For a brief instant, Mulder thought he was about to be the  
recipient of Brentwood's right fist. Lurching to his feet, the  
man lunged across the table until his nose was mere  
centimeters from Mulder's. Mulder stood his ground,  
though the headache ratcheted up a notch. Brentwood's fist  
tightened, then opened. 

"Give me a pen and the damn form," he growled. 

Mulder reached into his jacket for a ballpoint, then slid it  
and the form across the table. Brentwood signed with short,  
vicious strokes, piercing the paper in one spot. He slapped  
the pen down and straightened, stabbing his index finger  
toward Mulder's chest. 

"You reopened a wound today, Agent Mulder. It had better  
be worth it." 

A multitude of responses flashed through Mulder's head,  
but in the end, he said nothing at all.  
  


Violent Crimes Unit  
Tuesday  
3:56 p.m.  
  


"Just the two I was looking for," Digger greeted as Mulder  
and Scully stepped into the conference room. "Glad you  
could make it." When Mulder glanced at the three agents  
across the table and took a seat beside him he added  
quietly, "I was hoping you weren't planning on leaving me  
in the hot seat all by myself." 

"I wasn't aware I had a choice," Mulder murmured  
sarcastically. Jeffreys' memo included words like  
'mandatory' and 'disciplinary action.'" 

Digger pouted. "You got a written invitation? Mine just  
consisted of him telling me to have my butt in the  
conference room at 4 p.m.!" 

"You're just jealous cuz Dad likes me best," Mulder  
returned. 

Scully leaned an elbow on the table to peer around Mulder.  
"Are you boys finished? Because Jeffreys is going to be  
here any minute and it might be beneficial to have our  
ducks in a row." 

Digger cocked a thumb in her direction. "Have I mentioned  
I like her, Spooky?" 

"Once or twice," Mulder replied dryly. "What's the word on  
Dr. Sean Paxton?" 

Digger pulled out a spiral notepad and squinted at what  
appeared to be hieroglyphics. "Nothing unusual on the  
surface. Grew up with Mom, Dad and one brother in the  
teeming metropolis of Crawfordsville, Indiana --did you  
know that the guy who wrote Ben Hur was born in  
Crawfordsville?" At Mulder's blank stare and Scully's  
arched eyebrow he hastened to continue. "He did his  
undergrad at IU, then medical school and residency at  
University of Illinois, specializing in OB-GYN. Graduated  
with flying colors, magna cum laude. Then it gets  
interesting." 

"Rather than going into practice like a good little doctor he  
gets recruited by a high tech, bio-research facility in New  
Jersey by the name of InterGen Labs. Instead of delivering  
babies, he's up to his elbows in all kinds of funky genetics  
research -- cloning and trying to combine two existing  
species to create a new one." 

One look at Scully told Mulder there was no need to  
vocalize the word reverberating through his head, it fairly  
crackled in the air between them. 

Hybridization. 

"Digger, we're going to need you to look closer at InterGen,  
see if..." 

Digger held up one hand, a smug grin on his face. "Way  
ahead of you, chief. I had a feeling you might say that so I  
did a little snooping. There seems to be two distinct faces to  
InterGen, one public and easily accessible, and the other  
guarded like Fort Knox." He shook his head ruefully. "I  
take that back -- Fort Knox would be a piece of cake to  
hack into compared to this place." 

"We have no doubt as to the extent of your genius," Scully  
said. "What did you find?" 

Digger flashed her an impudent grin. "Nothing to do with  
the research, that was locked up too tight. But I did manage  
to glean a little info on the company itself. InterGen is a  
subsidiary of a company called VR Scientific that dabbles  
in just about everything, from surgical instruments and  
complicated medical equipment to research on diseases like  
cancer and AIDS. And VR Scientific is owned by an even  
larger corporation called..." 

"Roush," Scully said quietly. She looked at Mulder with  
haunted eyes. "What have we stumbled onto here,  
Mulder?" 

Mulder gave a quick shake of his head, not bothering to  
hide his grimace. "I'm not sure, Scully. Not what we set out  
to find." 

Digger's eyes narrowed in annoyance. "Would you two  
mind speaking in complete sentences for those of us that  
can't read minds?" 

Before Mulder or Scully could respond, Jeffreys breezed  
into the room with the two remaining team members in  
tow. 

"Everyone's here. How refreshing," he said acidly as he  
settled himself at the head of the table. He turned to the  
agent sitting immediately to his left. "Gentry, would you  
like to update us on your investigation of the most recent  
dump site?" 

Agent Patrick Gentry was a heavyset man with dark skin  
and a mustache as thick as his hair was thin. He cleared his  
throat, paging through the contents of a file folder spread  
before him. 

"I wish I could say I had something new to add. My team  
canvassed the neighborhood, hoping to come up with an  
eyewitness, without luck. According to Agent Scully, time  
of death for Ms. Pritchard was around 0100 on Saturday,  
roughly ten hours before the discovery of the body. Our  
boy musta dropped her off during the wee hours of the  
morning, before it got light. She was discovered by Jada  
Chin, an employee of the dry cleaners, when she tried to  
dispose of some garbage." 

"The dump site itself fits the pre-established pattern -- a  
rundown, urban neighborhood where everyone makes it a  
habit to mind their own business. I'm not saying positively  
there were no witnesses, but even if there were, I doubt  
they'll come forward. Traci Pritchard was an upper middle  
class white woman, not one of their own." 

Jeffreys nodded sagely. "Agent Scully? You performed the  
autopsy. Any insights to dazzle us?" 

Scully lips thinned but her voice remained unperturbed.  
"As a matter of fact, Agent Mulder and I have uncovered  
information that drastically changes the focus of this  
investigation." 

Jeffreys turned chameleon eyes on her. "Do tell." 

"During the routine questioning of various witnesses, we  
discovered that each of the six victims received genetic  
counseling from the same person, a woman by the name of  
Miriam Richardson." 

"Not only a woman, but a woman confined to a wheel chair  
\-- hardly a credible suspect," Jeffreys sneered. 

"I'm not convinced our UNSUB is a single person," Mulder  
spoke up calmly, though there was an unmistakable edge to  
his voice. "Richardson has definite issues with abortion  
compounded by the fact that she herself suffers from Spina  
Bifida -- the very condition that prompted some of our  
victims to pursue terminating their pregnancies. But there's  
more." 

When he indicated Scully should continue with a tilt of his  
head she turned her attention back to the SAC's thunderous  
face. "Our interviews also uncovered the fact that all of the  
women had been diagnosed as infertile prior to this  
pregnancy. And all received fertility treatment at the same  
clinic, from the same physician. Dr. Sean Paxton." 

Gentry and Archer murmured excitedly among themselves  
but Jeffreys remained unimpressed. "You haven't shared it  
all with us, Agent Scully, Agent Mulder." He smirked.  
"You haven't gotten to the part about little green men." 

Mulder braced both elbows on the table, tipping his  
forehead down until it rested in his palms. Scully sent him a  
worried glare, but he merely kneaded the flesh with a sigh.  
"I thought we were all on the same team here, Jeffreys.  
That we all wanted the same thing. Was I wrong?" 

"That was when we were looking for a flesh and blood  
serial killer, Mulder. But you couldn't leave it at that, could  
you? You had to bring in crazy ideas best left in the  
basement where they belong." 

"You're the one who mentioned aliens, Jeffreys," Mulder  
said tightly. "If it makes you feel any better, despite the  
MUFON connection, I believe whoever did this was very  
much terrestrial in origin." He moved his right hand up to  
shade his eyes, masking the involuntary wince. "We have a  
connection now. And Agent Scully and I have seen this  
before." 

Scully watched him from the corner of one eye, disturbed  
to see him unobtrusively swipe beads of perspiration from  
his upper lip. "Yes, sir," she said quickly, anxious to divert  
Jeffreys' focus from her partner. "As Agent Mulder said,  
we've established an experiential tie between the women --  
all six have at least one episode in their past of an  
unexplained absence. All six had difficulty conceiving. We  
have an additional connection in the persons of Miriam  
Richardson and Dr. Paxton. And once I finish re-  
examining the women's bodies we'll have a tangible,  
physical link." 

Jeffreys' brow creased in confusion. "What?" 

"A microchip. Embedded in the flesh at the base of the  
neck. I've already found one in Traci Pritchard. I have little  
doubt the rest will have them too." 

Gentry shook his head bemusedly. "I dunno. Sounds like  
something from a science fiction novel to me." 

Jeffreys was less diplomatic. "You spend your time digging  
up dead bodies and chasing UFOs if you must, but I want  
this investigation focused on Dr. Paxton. Archer can go talk  
to him first thing tomorrow, since you're restricted, Mulder,  
and Agent Scully will be tied up with the autopsies." 

"NO!" 

Mulder's vehement protest caught the SAC midway in  
rising from his seat. He sank back down, his anger obvious. 

"Agent Mulder, you forget yourself. I am the agent in  
charge of this department and this investigation. You have  
been invited to lend your expertise. I decide the  
assignments, and I want you at your desk as specified,  
refining your profile." 

Mulder surged to his feet, blinking when the room  
dissolved into a mass of swirling colors. "If you blunder in  
there and start asking questions about the murders Paxton  
will disappear without a trace. And all the evidence and any  
hope of catching our killer will disappear with him. Didn't  
you hear anything Agent Scully said? We've had hard  
evidence against these people in our hands, only to wind up  
with nothing! I don't intend to get caught with my pants  
down this time." 

Jeffreys stood. "I've given you an assignment, agent. You're  
in my backyard now, and you'll play by my rules." 

"Then I'll just have to take my marbles and go home,"  
Mulder replied insolently. "Seems to me this case now has  
all the earmarks of an X-File. Maybe it's time Scully and I  
filed a 302." 

He ignored Jeffreys’ splutter of outrage, regretfully leaving  
Scully to fend for herself. The pain behind his right eye felt  
as if it pierced straight through the back of his skull, and if  
he didn't reach the bathroom soon he was going to be  
wearing the ham and Swiss he'd eaten for lunch. He  
threaded his way through the desks on wobbly legs,  
bursting through the door and staggering to the toilet in  
time -- just. 

After what seemed an eternity of convulsions that left his  
stomach muscles on fire, he spat and dragged himself to his  
feet. All he wanted was to rinse the foul taste from his  
mouth and splash some cold water on his flushed face.  
Unfortunately, he wasn't prepared for the lightheadedness  
that washed over him after only a couple steps. He tried to  
put out a hand to steady himself, but there was nothing to  
grab. His vision blurred, his feet seemed to disappear, and  
the tile rushed up suddenly to meet him.  
  


VCU  
Tuesday  
4:57 p.m. 

"That could've gone better." 

Scully glared at Digger through her fingers but he refused  
to look repentant. Tilted back in his chair, twirling a pen  
between thumb and index finger, he reminded her so  
clearly of Mulder she couldn't help but wonder how she'd  
ever missed the similarities. Both blessed with double-  
edged wit and insatiable curiosity, both mavericks more  
likely to thumb their noses at authority than bow to it. 

"Brilliant analysis, Digger. Now I see why they pay you the  
big bucks." 

He grinned, delighted by her sarcasm, then sobered. "I hate  
to say it, Dana, but on some level Spooky is right. Jeffreys  
had mixed feelings about you two joining the team from the  
very beginning. He wanted the genius, but not the baggage  
that comes with it." When she sent him a sharp look he held  
up both hands. "Hey, he's my friend, but we both know he  
can be high maintenance." 

Scully's pursed lips couldn't quite hide her smile. "What do  
you mean when you say Mulder was right?" 

"Jeffreys' feelings may have been mixed in the beginning,  
but after today he'll be dead set against you two. I hate to  
say it, but I think you need to invoke Skinner." 

Scully groaned and let her head drop onto the back of the  
chair until she was staring at a particularly spectacular  
cobweb on the ceiling. "I assume that means 'you' in a  
general sense that includes Mulder, especially since *I*  
was the one left to handle Jeffreys just now," she said  
dryly. 

"Speaking of which -- where is Mulder? He wasn't looking  
too good when he stomped out of here," Digger said, brow  
furrowed. 

Scully sat up, glancing at the wall clock. They had been  
adjourned for at least five minutes, plenty of time for  
Mulder to cool down and return now that Jeffreys was  
gone. She recalled his behavior during the meeting, the  
now easily identifiable signs of a headache. 

"Let's check your office," she suggested. "Maybe he's  
waiting for us there." 

When Digger's cubicle proved to be empty, Scully picked  
up the phone and dialed the basement in hopes that Mulder  
had sought out privacy and his medication. After ten rings  
she replaced the receiver in its cradle, gnawing nervously  
on her lip. 

"Digger, see if he's in the bathroom," she said a little  
tersely. 

Digger looked as if he was about to ask a question, but her  
expression advised against it. He strode briskly across the  
bullpen to the washrooms, Scully just a few steps behind. 

He hadn't taken more than four steps inside, mouth open for  
a smart remark, when he saw Mulder sprawled on the tile,  
his face chalk white. Backing up quickly he shoved the  
door open and beckoned frantically for Scully. 

"Dana, get in here right now!" 

Mulder lay on his side, right arm twisted beneath his body  
and face pressed to the floor. Intending to roll his friend  
onto his back, Digger knelt and carefully grasped his  
shoulder. 

Scully barreled through the door. "Digger, stop!" When he  
jerked his arm back as if burned she circled to the other  
side of Mulder and crouched down. "Don't move him just  
yet," she explained more gently. "I need to check him over  
a bit first." 

He watched as she pressed the pads of two fingers to her  
partner's throat, then laid the backs against his cheek. She  
ran both hands along his neck and down his spine.  
Seemingly satisfied, she nodded to Digger and they  
carefully maneuvered Mulder onto his back, revealing an  
already purpling bruise at his right temple. Mulder made a  
sound halfway between a grunt and a moan, eyelids  
fluttering. 

"Mulder? Can you hear me?" Scully asked, her voice  
pitched a bit louder than normal. She loosened his tie and  
the first two buttons on his shirt. 

"Oh God, I must be in hell," he groaned, licking his lips  
and squinting in pain. 

"Nah, just the VCU bathroom," Digger said brightly, but  
his eyes were troubled. 

"That clinches it." Mulder struggled to open his eyes  
completely, but the glare of the fluorescent lights  
convinced him to settle for halfway. 

Scully, however, had other ideas. She leaned over and used  
thumb and forefinger to pry open each lid and study the  
pupil, ignoring Mulder's colorful protests. "Track my  
finger," she directed. 

After he'd complied she sat back on her heels and regarded  
him solemnly. "What happened?" 

"Scully, I'm lying on the floor of a bathroom used by a  
bunch of VCU guys. I don't even want to *think* about the  
implications there. Can I please get up?" 

When he made a move to rise, Digger reached out to assist.  
Scully stopped the action with a firm palm to the center of  
his chest and a warning glare at Digger. 

"Not yet. What happened?" 

Mulder rolled his eyes, then sucked in a sharp breath and  
turned a bit green. He closed them and concentrated on  
breathing slowly through his nose for several seconds  
before speaking. 

"Headache," he ground out. 

"Now? Or then?" 

"Both. Came in here and puked. Must have moved too  
quickly. Got dizzy." 

Scully frowned at his degeneration from complete  
sentences to fragments. She wrapped her fingers around his  
wrist, then took a closer look at the lump on his head. 

"Mulder, you know what I'm going to say." 

Green eyes struggled open to fix her with a reproachful  
gaze. "Sculleee!" 

"You have a huge lump on your head that's going an  
interesting shade of black and blue, your pulse is rapid, and  
your right pupil is slightly dilated," she said firmly, ticking  
off each point on her fingers. "You have to go to the  
hospital and get checked out. We can have Palermo meet us  
at the emergency room." 

"Palermo!" Mulder whined, shielding his eyes in the crook  
of his arm. 

"Mulder these headaches are getting worse. I want another  
CAT scan." 

Mulder was silent a moment. "No ambulance," he said  
mulishly, voice muffled by the sleeve of his jacket. "I walk  
out. You drive." 

"You walk out with help, if necessary, and let Digger get  
some ice for that bump. And I drive." 

Mulder muttered something under his breath. "Deal." 

Even though Scully and Digger helped him upright in small  
increments, Mulder was drenched in sweat and trembling  
by the time he stood on two feet. Scully left his side long  
enough to wet a couple of paper towels with cold water so  
that he could bathe his face. 

"Thanks," he said tersely, handing them back to her so she  
could discard them. 

"You ready to roll?" Digger asked. 

Mulder's nod turned into a grimace. "Yeah. But I don't want  
a scene." 

"No problem," Digger replied. "You and Dana can duck  
right around the corner to the elevators and I'll meet you at  
the car with the ice. Where are you parked?" 

"Section F, not far from the stairs," Scully replied, taking  
hold of Mulder's elbow as unobtrusively as possible. 

Mulder took several slow steps, swaying slightly, until he'd  
reached the door. "You don't think Scully coming out of the  
men's room is going to attract attention?" he asked  
sarcastically. 

Digger snorted. "You *have* been away too long, Spooky.  
This is Violent Crimes, remember? Most of 'em will be so  
preoccupied with what they're working on, they wouldn't  
notice if she strolled out naked -- no offense, Dana." 

Mulder leaned against the wall for a moment. "Whatcha  
say we test that theory?" he panted, wisely foregoing the  
accompanying leer. 

"Shut up, Mulder." 

Digger's prediction proved accurate. They made their way  
to an elevator that was blessedly empty due to the advanced  
hour. Mulder propped himself in a corner with his head  
pressed against the metal, eyes screwed tightly shut. 

"Talk to me, Mulder," Scully said quietly. "How are you  
doing?"  
  


"Hurts. Feel like I'm going to be sick." 

Her gaze darted around the interior as the doors slid open.  
Of course there was nothing, not even a trashcan in sight.  
Mulder opened his eyes, looking almost amused at her  
discomfiture. 

"Don't worry. Nothing left." 

Digger ran up just as Scully got him settled in the car, seat  
reclined. She accepted the makeshift ice pack with a  
grateful smile and laid it gently over the now swollen knot  
on Mulder's temple. 

"Hold this, Mulder." 

He did as she directed, with a slight grunt. Scully fastened  
his seatbelt and pulled back to shut the door. Digger peered  
inside, brow creased. 

"You want me to come?" 

Mulder's eyes, which had slipped shut, flew open. "NO!  
Gotta stop Jeffreys. Don't let him send Gentry to see  
Paxton. Talk to Skinner." 

Digger looked at Scully, who reluctantly nodded. "He's  
right. Once Paxton figures out we're aware of his  
connection to the victims he'll disappear. Skinner will  
understand, tell him everything." 

Digger hesitated only a moment longer before bobbing his  
head. "I'll take care of it, Spooky. You just hang in there." 

They made the drive to the hospital in tense silence.  
Scully's fingers curled around the steering wheel in a white-  
knuckled grip as she pushed the speed limit and winced at  
every bump. Mulder's eyes remained shut, his lips  
compressed to a thin line and his responses to her  
occasional questions limited to monosyllables. 

When they staggered through the electric doors into the  
emergency room, Mulder leaning heavily on Scully's left  
shoulder, Palermo was waiting for them. He took one  
assessing look at his patient, eased Mulder into a  
wheelchair, and turned to Scully. 

"On the phone you said he had an accident -- what  
happened?" he asked in a voice pitched for her ears only. 

"The headaches have been more frequent and more intense.  
According to Mulder, he vomited and became lightheaded  
when he stood up. He hit his head on the bathroom floor  
and was unconscious when we found him." 

"Did he lose consciousness before or after he hit the floor?"  
Palermo asked, bending to get a closer look at the lump on  
Mulder's head. 

"I don't know. I don't think he does either." 

"I'm not brain-damaged, and I'm sitting right here," Mulder  
growled. 

Palermo moved to crouch in front of him. "Sorry," he said  
contritely. "I wasn't sure you were up to it. Track my  
finger." 

Mulder pried his eyes open and locked them onto the  
indicated digit, following it first to the left, then the right. 

"Good. Do you know what...?" 

"Tuesday. 1999. Hillary's husband." 

Palermo looked up at Scully, who folded her arms and  
lifted her shoulders. "Okay, let's get him in an exam room  
and check all his vitals. I already alerted radiology that  
we'll be bringing him up." 

A nurse materialized and within minutes Mulder was  
settled on a gurney with a blood pressure cuff around one  
arm and a thermometer in his mouth. 

"Temperature's normal," she said, making a notation on his  
chart after she'd removed both. "BP is a little high. Dr.  
Palermo will be back in just a sec." 

Mulder settled more deeply into the small pillow, his  
eyelids drooping. "Can't let Gentry near Paxton," he  
mumbled. 

Scully moved closer to the bed. "Digger will take care of it,  
Mulder. You just relax." 

"Chips are key," he continued as if she hadn't spoken. "'S  
why they didn't struggle. Jus' like bridge, Scully. Were  
called." 

Scully frowned at the slurring that crept into his voice and  
his rising somnolence. She watched as he slowly blinked,  
then let his eyes slide shut. 

"Mulder, c'mon you know the drill," she said sharply,  
nudging his arm. "No sleeping with a head injury.  
Mulder?" 

He levered his eyelids up with what appeared to be a  
superhuman effort. "'M tired, Scully. Hurts." 

When his eyes started to close again she reached over and  
forced the right one open. The pupil had grown since her  
previous examination, threatening to swallow the green  
rim. Scully pulled aside the curtain to provide a view of the  
nurses' station. 

"Get Palermo in here right now, he's losing consciousness!"  
she bellowed. Turning back, she pinched Mulder's earlobe  
viciously between thumb and forefinger. "Mulder, wake up,  
damn it! Mulder!" 

His reaction was merely an unintelligible string of vowels  
and consonants coupled with a sluggish swat at her hand.  
Palermo tore the curtain all the way open and rushed to the  
other side of the gurney. 

"What in the hell is going on?" 

"Difficulty speaking followed by rapidly increasing  
lethargy. He's practically nonresponsive and his right pupil  
is completely dilated," Scully said curtly. 

Two nurses had joined Palermo as he pulled out a penlight  
and examined both Mulder's pupils, then checked reflexes.  
"He's slipping into a coma, there must be a bleed  
somewhere. Get him up to CT right now," he barked. 

In seconds the rails to the gurney were lifted and Mulder  
was being moved down the hallway. Scully started to  
follow but Palermo stopped her with a firm hand on her  
arm. 

"Dana, you can wait for him in chairs on the second floor.  
I'll let you know what's happening as soon as I can." 

With that he was off and running to catch up with the  
gurney, which had just been loaded onto the elevator.  
Scully stepped into the hallway just in time to see Palermo  
squeeze inside and catch a glimpse of Mulder's still face  
before the doors rolled shut.  
  


Georgetown Memorial  
Tuesday  
7:30 p.m.  
  


"Agent Scully." 

Scully's head snapped up at the familiar voice and she  
started to rise. A large hand on her shoulder interrupted the  
movement. 

"Sit, Scully. You look exhausted." 

Skinner took a seat in the chair to her right and she  
unconsciously shifted in the opposite direction. He was still  
clad in a crisp white shirt and conservative tie, though  
somewhere along the line he'd shed his jacket. Leaning  
forward with elbows braced on knees and hands clasped, he  
turned to regard Scully with compassionate eyes. 

"How is he? Agent Costanza said it was just a bump on the  
head, but they told me in the ER he'd been sent up for an  
emergency CAT scan." His expression darkened. "Does  
this have something to do with what Cancerman did to  
him?" 

Scully inhaled deeply and fixed blue eyes on his face. "He's  
been experiencing headaches ever since he returned to  
work. The frequency and intensity have been gradually  
increasing." 

When she paused, intending to gather her thoughts before  
continuing, Skinner scowled. "I asked you to inform me if  
he couldn't handle this case, Agent Scully. Why didn't  
you?" 

Scully closed her eyes and gave a sharp shake of her head.  
"There's more, sir. You need to hear the whole story." 

"I'm listening." 

"We discovered two important things about Mulder's  
headaches. First, that despite a complete battery of tests,  
Dr. Palermo could discover no physical cause. All the  
results came back completely normal." 

Skinner's brow creased. "The stress from this case..." 

Scully held up a hand. "They began that first week, sir,  
before Mulder and I took on this case. And they seem to  
have a very specific trigger." 

"A trigger?" 

She nodded. "Normal tension doesn't affect him, he had  
a...confrontation with Dr. Palermo and nothing happened.  
When he tries to work, however, to analyze the killer for  
his profile or access information from his memory." She  
shook her head. "It's almost instantaneous. It's like  
biofeedback. Are you familiar with the concept?" 

"Vaguely," Skinner admitted. "The premise is that you can  
use the mind to positively influence physical responses --  
blood pressure, heartrate, pain. It's a cyclical process:  
relaxation decreases pain, which in turn increases  
relaxation." 

Scully nodded again. "What I see happening to Mulder is  
like negative biofeedback. His mental process triggers the  
pain, which makes him work harder to concentrate and in  
turn provokes more pain." She looked at Skinner grimly. "It  
cripples him until he can't continue, effectively preventing  
him from working. Do you see the implications, sir?" 

Realization seeped onto Skinner's face. "You think this was  
purposely done to him?" 

Scully stood and began pacing. "They operated on his  
*brain*, sir. And we don't know how or why. This certainly  
achieves their purpose, doesn't it?" 

Skinner pushed his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his  
nose. "They've shown they'll resort to just about anything if  
it furthers their own interests," he muttered. "What  
happened today? Costanza told me about the meeting with  
Jeffreys and I've already spoken to him. The investigation  
will proceed as you and Mulder advised." 

The dangerous tone in Skinner's voice stilled Scully's  
restless feet. "Thank you," she murmured. "Mulder will be  
relieved to hear that." 

Skinner shrugged off her gratitude. "Jeffreys is a  
pretentious loud mouth with a few friends in high places.  
He functions adequately under normal circumstances but  
this case is way over his head, and he knows it." 

"I think Mulder had a headache before the meeting but  
didn't want to take anything that would make him fuzzy,"  
Scully went on. "The argument with Jeffreys didn't provoke  
it, but I'm sure it didn't help. The pain became so severe he  
vomited and became dizzy. He fell and hit his head." 

Scully resumed pacing. "He was unconscious when Digger  
and I found him but he came around soon after." She  
pressed two fingers to her lips. "I never should have let him  
talk me into driving here. I should have called 911 -- screw  
Jeffreys and the rest of those VCU idiots." 

Skinner's eyebrows climbed at her unaccustomed  
vocabulary. "Costanza said he just had a bad headache and  
seemed a little unsteady. Why did his condition  
deteriorate?" 

"He suffered an intracerebral hemorrhage -- that's bleeding  
in the brain," Scully explained tightly, sitting back down on  
the edge of her chair. "Dr. Palermo found it right away  
when he did the CAT scan. What he didn't expect was that  
it had nothing to do with the bump on Mulder's head. It  
occurred in a completely unrelated area of the brain." 

Skinner clenched his jaw and glanced away. "The  
headache?" 

"Seems the most likely explanation." Scully's voice  
wavered slightly. "The good news is that it was a small  
bleed and already appeared to be stopping. With any luck,  
they can treat Mulder with drugs and avoid surgery."  


A figure in scrubs and a white lab coat rounded the corner  
and Scully sprang instantly to her feet. 

"Dr. Palermo, how is he?" 

Palermo cupped the back of his neck, eyeing Skinner  
questioningly. 

"This is Assistant Director Skinner, our boss," Scully added  
impatiently. 

Palermo shook Skinner's hand and exchanged the required  
pleasantries while Scully shifted impatiently from foot to  
foot. Finally he turned to her with a tired smile. 

"We're getting him settled in the ICU, you can go on up as  
soon as we've finished talking. The bleeding seems to have  
stopped. I'm giving him Mannitol, 1.5 grams as a 20  
percent solution over the next hour to reduce the swelling.  
We'll monitor him carefully and decide how to proceed  
from there." 

Some of the tension left Scully's rigid shoulders. "Thank  
you." 

He smiled, brushing his fingers down her arm. "My  
pleasure. Try not to worry, we'll have him complaining in  
no time." 

When Palermo left, Skinner turned to Scully, who kept  
glancing down the corridor to the elevators. "Go ahead,  
Scully. Keep me posted on his condition." 

He headed for the stairwell, only to stop and spin around.  
"Agent Scully?" 

She turned back. "Sir?" 

Skinner looked at a spot just over her head, uncomfortable  
under the force of her gaze. "He can't work like this, Scully.  
I'd be negligent in my position as his supervisor if I allowed  
him to continue." 

Raw emotion flitted briefly across her face before the calm  
mask reasserted itself. "I understand, sir." 

"If you'd like me to tell him..." 

"No. I'll tell him, thank you anyway, sir. And thank you for  
handling SAC Jeffreys." Calm, resolute, but she couldn't  
disguise the pain in her eyes. 

Skinner watched her disappear into the elevator before  
continuing toward the stairs. He hadn't attempted to contact  
that cigarette smoking bastard in months. Now seemed like  
the time to try.  
  


ICU  
Tuesday  
10:02 p.m.  
  


Scully sat close to the bed and played idly with the long  
fingers of the limp hand that rested in her own. It was just  
one of the few indulgences she allowed herself when he  
was asleep or unconscious -- sad, really, that they'd been  
here enough times for her to be able to claim that. 

She ran the tip of her index finger up and around each digit,  
watching his face, smoothed in sleep. The second CAT  
scan, performed less than an hour earlier, had already  
shown a reduction in swelling and Mulder had been  
exhibiting signs of waking for about the last fifteen  
minutes. A small sound that could have been distress,  
relief, or a combination of both slipped up her throat and  
past her lips as she bent over to lay her cheek against his  
palm. 

*Why are you such a coward, Dana? How many times are  
you going to come within a breath of losing him without  
telling him how you really feel?* 

"When this is over, Mulder," she murmured, pressing a kiss  
to the pad of flesh beneath his thumb before straightening  
up. "We're going to have a long talk." 

"Mmm. 'S nice, Scully. 'Bout what?" 

Though his eyes were still shut, his head lolled in her  
direction and his lips curved. Scully stood and hit the call  
button, positioning herself by his head. 

"Hey," she said, grinning like an idiot. "Welcome back,  
partner." 

The nurse, Vickie, appeared a bit breathlessly. "Doctor  
Scully? Is there a problem?" 

Scully managed to regain a little composure. "Yes. He's  
awake," she said wryly. "Could you page Dr. Palermo?" 

Vickie inched a few steps closer, breaking into a smile  
when Mulder wrestled his eyes partially open. "Nice you  
could join us, Agent Mulder," she said, winking at Scully.  
"I'll get Dr. Palermo right up here." 

Mulder swallowed thickly and licked his lips. "Water?" he  
croaked. 

Scully poured a small amount into a cup and placed the  
straw at his lips. "Not too much, Mulder. You need to go  
easy on fluids for a bit." 

He blinked, eyes panning slowly around the room. "Uh,  
Scully? Where am I?" 

Her impulsive hand reached out to smooth back a wisp of  
his hair. "ICU. You had an intracerebral hemorrhage,  
Mulder. Fortunately it was small, and they were able to  
take care of it with medication. What do you remember?" 

He frowned, lifting the hand without the I.V. to rub his  
eyes. "The ER, I guess. Laying on that gurney and feeling  
like my head was going to crack open." He sighed and lay  
his hand back across his chest. "Whatever they've got me  
on is gooood stuff." 

"No headache?" 

Mulder snickered. "'M not even sure I've got a head." 

Scully grinned at that. "Get some sleep. If you continue to  
improve they'll be moving you to a regular room first thing  
in the morning." 

He nodded agreeably and let his eyelids glide shut. Scully  
thought he'd dropped off to sleep, but he surprised her by  
speaking. 

"Didn't think I hit my head that hard, Scully. Why'd I  
hemorrhage?" 

Scully sank her teeth into her lip. This was territory she'd  
hoped to leave uncharted until the morning. When she  
didn't immediately reply, Mulder's eyes popped open. 

"Scully?" 

"Mulder, as far as we can tell, the bleed had nothing to do  
with the blow to your head." 

She watched as his brows knit in confusion, then lifted in  
shocked disbelief. "The headache...?" 

Scully sat down on the edge of the mattress and  
sandwiched his hand between hers. "It looks that way,  
Mulder. It's the most plausible explanation." 

His gaze was too intense, boring into her face until her  
cheeks flushed and she averted her eyes. "You really need  
to rest now, Mulder. We can talk about this..." 

"You're going to tell Skinner, aren't you?" 

Not even a hint of accusation in the question, only weary  
resignation. Scully pulled her gaze back to his, troubled by  
the dull acceptance that waited there. She wanted him to be  
angry, to rant and rave about betrayal and insist on his  
ability to continue working. She wanted Mulder, not this  
stranger wearing his face. 

"He already knew you were here, Mulder. Digger told him.  
He would never have settled for less than the complete  
truth." 

*Nor would I* 

"He's taking me off the case." It was a statement, not a  
question and Scully's throat closed up at the bleakness. 

"Mulder, you can't afford another headache," she said  
thickly. "The work triggers the headache, and the headache  
caused the bleed. You might not be so lucky next time." 

Mulder's eyes slammed shut and she was devastated when a  
tear squeezed out the corner and ran down into the pillow.  
"Lucky," he choked. "Right. I'll remember that, Scully." 

"Mulder..." 

"Hey, I hear you decided to rejoin the land of the living,  
Mulder," Dr. Palermo said cheerfully, breezing into the  
room with Vickie. "How do you feel?" 

Mulder swallowed, and when he opened his eyes they were  
blank. "Just great, Doc. After all, I'm alive, right? I've still  
got a whole lifetime to look forward to." 

Scully dug her nails into her palm, fighting back tears, as  
Palermo chuckled and set about examining his patient.  
Vickie, however, sensed her distress. While the doctor  
checked Mulder's pupils she moved unobtrusively to  
Scully's side. 

"Are you all right, Dr. Scully?" she asked softly. "Can I get  
you anything?" 

Scully blinked rapidly, her shoulders straightening and her  
chin tipping up. "I'm fine, Vickie. But thanks." 

Vickie lay a comforting hand on her arm and smiled.  
"Sometimes the shock of an ordeal doesn't hit until it's  
over. Don't worry, he'll be just fine." 

Scully pasted on a smile that was strictly for show. 

*I want to believe...*  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Georgetown Medical  
Wednesday  
8:08 a.m.  
  


Mulder watched raindrops slide down the slick surface of  
the window, feeling as gray within as the weather without.  
The Mannitol had done its job, significantly reducing the  
swelling in his brain, so he'd been relocated to a regular  
room around 6:00 a.m. His new nurse, a tank of a woman  
named Connie, had informed him sternly that he was not to  
set foot out of bed until Palermo made his rounds later that  
morning. Not even to pee. Mulder scowled at the urinal,  
placed none too discreetly on the bedside table, and  
wondered if he could hold it until then. 

Stuck in bed, nothing to read, and a broken television to  
boot. Part of him longed for Scully to breeze through the  
door, smelling of rain and the real world. The other part  
wanted to crawl into a hole and lick his wounds in private,  
unencumbered by the need to reassure her that he was fine. 

Because he wasn't fine. Not even close. 

Last night he'd been numb with shock, staggered by the  
implication of his brush with death. He'd feigned sleep so  
that Scully would go home and let him think, but the drugs  
in his system turned his fabrication into truth. Now, in the  
enforced solitude of the silent room, he could do little but  
think. Thoughts that wrapped a black shroud around his  
heart and left a bitter taste on his tongue. 

Disconnected -- from the case, from the X-Files, and  
inevitably from the FBI. Ironic that the part of himself that  
had kept him going during his darkest hours, sustained him  
when everything he held dear crumbled to dust and slipped  
between his fingers, should ultimately turn against him.  
When his father's eyes laid blame more efficiently than  
words. When his mother cleaned out Sam's room, weeping  
over each item as she packed them into cardboard boxes.  
When he couldn't decide which was worse, the painfully  
polite silences at the dinner table or the mercilessly vicious  
recriminations once he'd gone to bed. His mind took him  
away from the misery of his day to day existence, reminded  
him that in spite of his father's condemnation and his  
mother's indifference Fox Mulder *was* special. He could  
think rings around his classmates, could achieve any goal  
he set his mind to. 

One day, he'd promised himself, that mind would open a  
door that would set him free and start him on a journey -- a  
journey that held only one destination. His sister. 

Twenty-six years into the journey, and some days he  
wanted it to be over so badly that he ached, body and soul.  
But not like this. 

Never like this. 

Mulder swiped angrily at his eyes with the back of his  
hand, pointing the remote control at the defunct television  
and punching the buttons fiercely with his thumb. Nothing,  
not even a spark of life. Worthless, Connie had pronounced  
disdainfully when she'd come by to check his vitals.  
Broken beyond repair when an overzealous employee  
sprayed it with cleaning solution and shorted out the picture  
tube, destining it for the junk pile. Not that you could tell  
by looking at it, mind you. From the outside it appeared to  
be a perfectly functional piece of electronics -- state of the  
art, even. But that illusion was stripped away, the truth  
revealed, once you held the remote in your hand. No matter  
how good that set looked, how good it might once have  
been, now it was nothing more than damaged goods. 

Worthless. 

Mulder squeezed his eyes tightly shut and hurled the  
remote at the wall. It impacted with a satisfying crack,  
splintering the black plastic case and leaving a gouge in the  
plaster. 

"Good morning to you too, Mulder." 

He opened his eyes and straightened guiltily, watching as  
Scully crossed the room and gathered up the pieces. She  
walked slowly over to the trashcan and deposited the  
evidence of his tantrum before coming over to perch on the  
side of his bed. Uncomfortable under the heat of her  
probing stare, he began fiddling with his I.D. bracelet,  
picking at the edge where it irritated his wrist. 

"Stop that," Scully said mildly. "You're just going to make  
it worse." 

She astonished him by slipping one of her small fingers  
under the plastic and rubbing it soothingly over the abused  
flesh. It felt wonderful, comforting. And at the same time it  
burned. God, it burned. 

"Thought you'd be at Quantico, examining the rest of the  
victims," he said, jerking his arm away and diverting his  
gaze to the rain-spattered window. 

Even so, he could sense the hurt in Scully's voice. "I'm  
headed there now. I wanted to stop by and see how you're  
feeling." 

*Don't go there, Scully. You won't like what you'll find.* 

"I'm good," Mulder said with false heartiness. "Palermo  
should be stopping by soon to lift the restriction on getting  
out of bed. If all goes well he'll release me tomorrow." 

Scully smiled. "That's great." But her gaze lost none of its  
intensity. "So why were you beating up on that poor,  
innocent little remote?" 

Mulder swallowed, then looked her squarely in the eye.  
"Damn television doesn't work, and I'm bored. Guess I lost  
my temper." 

Scully nodded, pursing her lips. "Going cold turkey is  
never pretty," she replied seriously, just the hint of a smirk  
in her eyes. "I'll talk to the warden on the way out, see what  
I can do." 

He tried to give her what she expected -- an irreverent  
remark about his nurse, a sarcastic observation about  
hospitals in general, even a bit of medical innuendo.  
Something to set her mind at ease, to convince her that he  
was the same man he'd always been. To preserve the  
illusion. 

"Don't let me hold you up, Scully," was what came out.  
"Skinner is going to need hard evidence to convince  
Jeffreys we were right. 

Once again a flicker of pain crossed her face, but she stood  
up and smoothed her slacks. "After yesterday, I don't think  
he'd be convinced even if the victims sat up and presented  
the evidence themselves," she replied sardonically. 

Mulder snorted, amused in spite of himself. "To keep him  
on a leash, then," he amended. He shook his head. "The  
implants will be there, Scully, I'm certain of it. It explains  
one of the most troubling aspects of this case, the complete  
lack of a struggle on the victim's part." He rubbed absently  
at his finger, oblivious to Scully's sudden tension. "Those  
women didn't fight because they were programmed *not*  
to. No one witnessed their abduction because they weren't  
abducted. They were *called*, just like..." 

"Mulder, STOP IT!" 

Her reprimand was like a bucket of ice water, quenching  
his fire and plunging him back into darkness. Scully raised  
one trembling hand to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear,  
then lay her finger beneath her nose. 

"Let this go, Mulder. You cannot continue to tempt fate,"  
she said, voice deceptively calm. "Yesterday could have  
been so much worse. It could have cost you your life." 

Something deep inside him, something that had been  
swelling and festering, burst and the poison spilled out,  
beyond his control. 

"*Could* have cost me my life? What the hell do you think  
I have left to lose? It's *over*, Scully -- the Files, our  
partnership, any chance I had of finding my sister! I am no  
longer capable of performing my job, I'm dead weight.  
They did something to me in that operating room, broke  
something inside of me, and if you're honest with us both  
you'll admit it can't be fixed." 

"I will *not* admit that, because I will *not* give up!"  
Scully snapped, bracing her hands on the mattress and  
leaning into his space. "And even if you can no longer  
continue with the Bureau, even if you lose the Files, you  
will *never* lose me and I will *never* stop helping you  
look for your sister!" 

Her voice softened. "Your life is not over, Mulder, because  
this job is no longer your life. It hasn't been for some time  
now. You have people who care about you, and other  
talents you can develop." 

Mulder's expression remained stony. "What would you  
suggest I do with myself, Scully? Teach? Last time I  
checked, that requires using your memory. Use that psych  
degree, go into private practice? That takes reasoning, the  
ability to analyze the problem and formulate a solution. Or  
were you thinking I could employ my dazzling ability on  
the basketball court to give the Bulls a shot in the arm now  
that Jordan's gone?" 

Scully shook her head stubbornly, refusing to be put off.  
"We will figure something out, Mulder. I will help you." 

"The novelty will wear off," Mulder sneered. "Think of the  
stimulating conversations we *won't* have. Even an  
overdeveloped sense of Catholic guilt isn't going to keep  
you from growing tired of someone who's not quite all  
there anymore." 

Scully clenched her jaw. "So that's it? You're just going to  
quit, take the coward's way out?" she asked coldly. 

Mulder scooted down in the bed and turned to face the  
wall. His voice, rather than combative, was very soft. "No  
need to quit, Scully. Game's already over." When she didn't  
move or speak, stunned by his words, he murmured, "You'd  
better get going. Traffic's a bitch this time of day." 

He nearly pulled it off, but after seven years she recognized  
every subtle nuance to his voice. "Mulder..." she said  
helplessly. 

"Please, Scully. Just walk away." 

Shell-shocked, her mind too numb to come up with an  
alternative, she did. It wasn't until she was in her car,  
pulling onto the highway, that it occurred to her he might  
have meant permanently.  
  


X-Files Office  
Wednesday  
3:25 p.m.  
  


The knock on the door startled Scully, her head whipping  
up from where she'd propped it on a fist, her hand jerking  
involuntarily into the row of small objects lining the  
desktop. One of the objects fell to its side with a small clink  
and she caught it just before it rolled off the edge. 

"It's open," she called, setting the errant piece of glass back  
into place. 

Six small vials, labeled and lined up like soldiers. Each  
bearing the name of a victim. Each containing a tiny metal  
chip closely resembling the one lodged under the skin of  
her neck. 

"Hey," Digger said, sounding subdued as he circled the  
desk and dropped into a chair. "Thought I'd see how the  
other half of the X-Files was doing. See if you found what  
you were looking for." 

Scully leaned back into the chair, indicating the vials with a  
sweep of her hand. "Judge for yourself." 

Digger frowned, reaching around a stack of books to lift  
first one, and then another, until he'd cursorily examined all  
six. "Microchips. Just like Traci Pritchard. Just as you  
suspected." 

"Yes," Scully agreed. 

He looked up, one tube still between his fingers. "What  
does it mean?" he asked, a hint of wonder amidst the  
puzzlement. 

How to answer *that* question? She suddenly felt ancient  
compared to a man who was supposed to be her peer. 

"It means we've been deceived," she replied bitterly. "That  
these women were not the victims of a serial killer, as we  
were led to believe, but a failed medical experiment to  
which they were subjected without their knowledge or  
consent. 

Digger searched her face with growing disbelief. "Are you  
saying this relates to their supposed abductions? That  
*aliens* did this?" 

Scully's hand crept unconsciously to the back of her neck,  
fingers probing the tiny scar just beneath her hairline as  
distorted images of a train car flashed through her mind. 

"Not aliens, Digger. *Men* were responsible for abducting  
those women, for performing the procedures that led to  
their sterility as well as the ones that later allowed them to  
conceive. And when the experiment didn't work, when it  
looked as if their dirty little secret was in danger of  
exposure, *men* killed them and disposed of the  
evidence." 

Digger set down the vial. "So where do we go from here?" 

Scully sat forward. "We get some people to keep an eye on  
Dr. Sean Paxton while I get hold of a search warrant. Then  
we see just what kind of practice he has been running." She  
sighed. "I'm not sure how much to tell Mulder about this.  
He'll want to know." 

"Dana." Digger paused, looking uneasy. "That's another  
reason I stopped by. I took a late lunch and went to the  
hospital to see how Mulder was doing." He shook his head.  
"I'm worried about him, Dana." 

Scully tensed. "He was off the Mannitol this morning and  
his doctor thought he'd be released tomorrow. Has he had a  
setback?" 

"No, no, nothing like that," Digger said hastily. "Physically  
he looked 100 percent better than yesterday. It was the way  
he was acting that bothers me." 

"You know Skinner didn't just pull him off the case,"  
Scully replied quietly. "He's on indefinite medical leave.  
Mulder's not taking it too well." 

"I wouldn't expect him to. It's the *way* he's not taking it  
that has me concerned. This is Fox Mulder we're talking  
about, the original rebel without a cause. I've seen him  
buck the system for reasons much less important to him  
than this. He should be ranting and raving about how it's  
his damn life and his place to determine what risks to take.  
But he's not. He's turned over the keys and gotten out of the  
car." He rubbed his chin. "I never thought I'd see the day  
when Spooky Mulder would give up without a fight. Until  
now." 

Scully shoved back her chair and stood, walking slowly  
over to the poster on the wall. "I know. We argued about it  
this morning. I don't know what to do about it." She traced  
her finger over the word "believe." "We've been fighting  
these men a long time, Digger. They know Mulder, both  
what makes him strong and where he’s at his most  
vulnerable. They adjust their aim accordingly." 

"Are you saying that the men responsible for the deaths of  
these women are the same men that did this to Mulder?" At  
her nod he stood and joined her, placing a firm hand on her  
shoulder. "All the more reason to find them and take them  
down," he said harshly. 

Scully reached up to give his fingers a grateful squeeze,  
then returned to the desk and began shoving papers into her  
briefcase. "I need to update Skinner and Jeffreys. Will you  
be a part of the search team? I'd like to have you along, I'm  
sure at least some of the records will be electronic." 

"Couldn't keep me away," Digger replied, shoving hands  
into his pockets and hunching his shoulders. "Speaking of  
electronics, there's something I don't understand about all  
this. What is the purpose of those microchips?" 

"Tracking devices, perhaps?" Scully said absently, setting  
aside a folder in favor of another and loading it into the  
case. "Mulder is convinced that the chip calls the woman to  
the murder site. That it creates a compulsion that she is  
powerless to ignore." 

Digger scratched his head. "Gentry was right. This is like  
something straight out of an Isaac Asimov novel." 

"I know how it sounds, Digger, and I'd feel the same if I  
hadn't experienced it for myself. Trust me when I say that  
tiny piece of metal can have extreme physiological  
consequences..." 

Digger turned in time to see her blanch and clutch at the  
back of the chair. "Dana? Are you all right? Sit down a  
minute." 

It was as if he hadn't spoken. She stared sightlessly through  
a spot on the wall, her mouth slightly agape in shock. 

"Oh my God, could it really be that simple?" she  
whispered, her voice barely audible. 

"You're losing me here, Dana. What's with the divine  
epiphany?" he prodded. 

"Maybe nothing. Or maybe everything," she murmured.  
Giving herself a visible shake, she slid the last folder into  
her briefcase and snapped it shut. "Digger, I have to go to  
the hospital. I need you to take this report" -- she thrust a  
file into his hands -- "to Skinner. Have him set things in  
motion for the warrant and organize a team." 

"The hospital? Won't you be going in with the team?" 

"I have to take care of this first. I'll contact Skinner as soon  
as I can. Don't let him move without me." She swung the  
strap onto her shoulder with a slight grunt and headed for  
the door. 

"Sure. I'll just order the AD to wait until he hears from  
you," Digger called dryly. "Mind telling me just what  
you're up to in case he asks?" 

Scully paused with one hand on the doorknob and an air of  
barely contained hope. "Tell him I just may know what's  
causing Mulder's headaches," she said shortly. "And keep  
your fingers crossed."  
  


En route to Georgetown  
Wednesday  
4:36 p.m.  
  


"What do you mean, he checked himself out?" 

Scully signaled and took the next off ramp, pulling to the  
side of the road. She threw the gearshift into park and  
switched her cell phone to the opposite ear. 

"I mean that he signed the AMA paperwork and left,"  
Palermo replied in a voice that sounded as if he was  
working hard to be patient. "He's an adult, Agent Scully,  
and I can't hold him against his will. His condition was  
stable and I would have released him tomorrow morning  
anyway. He promised me he'd take it easy." 

"Why didn't you call me? I asked you to notify me of any  
change in his condition. I think this qualifies," Scully  
snapped. Her rational self recognized that she was taking  
out her frustration on an innocent bystander. Unfortunately,  
her irrational self had stuffed the rational into a box and  
was sitting on the lid. 

"I tried, believe me. You weren't answering your cell phone  
or the one at the office, and I did leave a message. I was  
called into emergency surgery and I've been tied up all  
afternoon. I just got out." Palermo took a deep breath. "I'm  
sorry." 

Scully let her head thump against the headrest. "No, I'm  
sorry. You must have called while I was performing an  
autopsy. I haven't checked my voicemail." 

"I released him about 1:30 or so. He said he didn't want to  
bother you, that he'd take a cab," Palermo offered. 

Scully sighed. "What he didn't say was that he knew I'd be  
furious with him," she said shortly. 

Palermo chuckled. "He didn't have to." 

"I'm heading over to his place right now to pick him up,"  
Scully continued, grinning a little. "I'll be bringing him  
back in as soon as we can battle the rush hour traffic." 

"Bringing him back?" 

"I think I may have figured out the origin of his headaches.  
I'm going to need some x-rays taken." 

Palermo was silent for a moment. "O-O-kay. Mind telling  
me what you think you'll find with an x-ray that a CAT  
scan hasn't turned up?" 

"A microchip. And I won't be looking at the skull. I'll need  
films of his neck and the apex of his spine," Scully replied,  
pointing the car back toward Alexandria and pulling back  
onto the road. 

When her only response was dead silence, she took pity on  
him. "I know how this must sound. Just arrange for the x-  
rays and I promise I'll explain everything when we get  
there." 

Palermo chuffed softly. "I'll be waiting with bated breath,  
Doctor Scully." 

Scully pressed END and then dialed Mulder's number. The  
phone rang five times before the answering machine kicked  
on with its brief message: "This is Fox Mulder. Please  
leave a message." 

"Mulder, it's me. Pick up the phone." 

She waited, but received only silence. Eventually the  
machine disconnected and she redialed, swearing softly  
under her breath. After waiting impatiently for the message  
to play out, she tried again. 

"Mulder, I know you're there and I know you checked out  
against medical advice. I'm coming over and I'm using my  
key so you damn well better be decent when I get there!" 

She flipped the phone shut and stuffed it into her pocket,  
trying to ignore the feeling of unease that crept up and  
down her spine. Traffic was a nightmare, and she found  
herself hunched over the wheel, alternately cursing and  
biting her lip. The sight of Mulder's building, rather than  
assuaging her discomfort, seemed to exacerbate it. She took  
the stairs and nearly jogged down the hallway in her haste  
to reach his door. A perfunctory rap of knuckles to wood  
and she was slipping her key into the lock. 

Near darkness blanketed the apartment, broken only by the  
soft glow of the fish tank and the flickering blue of the  
muted television. Scully's lips parted to call his name, but  
an overwhelming sensation of foreboding washed over her  
and she felt the hairs on her arms literally rise in response.  
One hand brushing the weapon at the small of her back, she  
moved quietly through the entryway and paused at the  
threshold of the living room. 

Mulder was seated on the couch and appeared oblivious to  
her entrance. A near-empty bottle of scotch and a tumbler  
still bearing the residue rested on the coffee table. Rather  
than the television screen, Mulder's attention was captured  
by something in his hands, something Scully couldn't  
identify in the nearly non-existent light. 

"Mulder," she said sotto voice. "Are you all right?" 

He didn't react, didn't lift his eyes from their contemplation,  
so she walked cautiously closer, curiosity warring with  
apprehension. The illumination from the television abruptly  
flared, bringing Mulder into sharp relief from his  
surroundings. Scully caught her breath and jerked to a  
standstill, her heart pounding wildly. 

The object of Mulder's fascination was his service weapon.  
The fingers of his right hand were wrapped around the grip  
and curled loosely over the trigger. He stroked the palm of  
his left hand slowly up and down the barrel as if hypnotized  
by the sensation of the cool steel. 

"Mulder." Scully allowed some sharpness to bleed into her  
voice, desperate to steal his attention from the firearm but  
afraid to startle him. 

When his gaze wandered apathetically to her face, she saw  
that his eyes were red and puffy, his face marked by dried  
tears. She decided to approach him from left field, hoping  
to throw him off balance. 

"Have you been drinking, Mulder?" 

The answer was plain in the sluggishness of his  
movements, the excessive time he took to process the  
question and formulate an answer. 

"Yep. Jussa few. Hep yourseff, Scully." 

She could see his focus slipping back to the gun; rushed to  
head it off. "Mulder, you know you aren't supposed to drink  
alcohol while you're on the Dilantin," she said sternly,  
suppressing all but the faintest quaver. "Come into the  
kitchen and let me take a look at you." 

His head moved from side to side, slowly, dreamily, and  
his eyes dropped back to the gun. "Doesn' matter, Scully. 'S  
all over now so it won' make any diff'rence." 

Ice rushed through Scully's body and she could feel  
perspiration break out between her shoulder blades. With  
superhuman effort she kept a chokehold on the panic that  
bubbled up, insisting she should make a grab for the gun.  
Mulder was not just depressed but three sheets to the wind,  
a deadly combination. 

"Mulder, give me the gun and we'll go in the kitchen. You  
can make us some coffee and we'll talk." 

A spark of anger drove some of the vacancy from his gaze.  
"What'll we talk about, Scully? Th' case?" he sneered. "'S  
nothing to say. Jus' go home." 

Scully folded her arms. "I'm not going anywhere unless you  
give me the gun." 

Mulder lifted his shoulders in a dismissive shrug. "Never  
figured you for th' type that likes to watch, but be my  
guest," he said, making as if to press the gun to his temple. 

The meaning of his words struck her like a physical blow,  
tears of rage and grief flooding her eyes until he was  
reduced to a gray silhouette. 

"You bastard," she choked. 

Mulder huffed a small laugh that never touched his eyes.  
"Prob'ly." 

"You want to give up, take the coward's way out? Go  
ahead. But don't expect me to make it easy for you. You  
damn well better look me straight in the eye while you do  
it, you selfish son of a bitch." 

Mulder's carefully crafted fa�de splintered. Tremors ran  
through his hand until the gun jittered as shell-shocked,  
wide eyes locked onto her face. "I have to, Scully. 'S no  
reason anymore, no purpose t' get outta bed in the  
morning." He blinked hard and his voice broke. "I gotta  
have a reason, Scully." 

Scully took two quick steps forward until she loomed over  
him, one hand braced on each of his knees. "You want  
reasons? I'll give you reasons, Mulder. You've yet to go  
skiing in Chile or take a safari in Africa. You're the only  
remaining family of a woman who's suffered enough loss  
for three lifetimes. You're a good friend and steadying  
influence on three geeks whose paranoia might otherwise  
run rampant. And what's more, I happen to love you, damn  
it!" 

Her rubbery legs gave out and Scully plopped down onto  
the coffee table, shoving the bottle of scotch angrily to the  
side. Mulder's head swung back and forth in denial, but the  
gun dropped back to his lap. 

"You loved who I was, Scully. *I* don' even know th' guy  
in th' mirror now," he murmured, cupping her jaw and  
brushing aside a tear with his thumb. 

Scully caught his hand and laced their fingers, the warmth  
of her skin leeching a bit of the clamminess from his. "I  
*know* you. Yes, I appreciate your intellect, your  
unorthodox way of solving a problem. But that's only  
*one* layer, Mulder, and like...like an onion, you've got an  
infinite number waiting just underneath. You can view this  
as an end, throw it all away. Or you can peel away your old  
life and begin to explore the gifts that it eclipsed." 

Mulder brought the other hand up until Scully's was  
sandwiched between his own, leaning forward to press his  
forehead against them. "You make it sound so easy," he  
sighed. 

Scully cautiously collected the forgotten weapon from his  
lap and placed it behind her, then drew his head against her  
shoulder. "Not easy, Mulder," she breathed, smoothing her  
fingers over his hair. "Just worth the effort." 

Mulder shuddered and she felt the warm wetness of tears at  
her collarbone. She sensed him struggling to utter a single  
word, muscles coiled tightly beneath her arm. 

"Samantha." 

As always, she marveled that a name could contain such a  
wealth of pain. 

Pulling back, she cupped his face in her palms and looked  
urgently into his eyes, blinking impatiently at the moisture  
that clouded her own. He mirrored her action, large hands  
cradling her jaw, and for a moment she was nearly  
overpowered by the feeling of déjà vu. 

"We will find a way," Scully said slowly. "I promise." 

And just as she had in a previous moment of truth, she  
sealed the promise with a touch of her lips to his brow, then  
rested her forehead against his. They remained that way, in  
contented silence, until Mulder straightened and tucked a  
strand of hair behind her ear. Ducking his head he peered  
into her eyes, lips curved in the smallest hint of a smile. 

"An *onion*, Scully?" 

She arched an eyebrow when all she really wanted was to  
collapse in a quivering puddle of pure relief. "It's called an  
analogy, Mulder." She frowned at his dilated pupils.  
"Exactly how many drinks did you have, anyway?" 

Mulder scrubbed his hands over his face. "'M not sure.  
'Nough to dull th' pain, not enough to puke." 

Scully wrinkled her nose. "Go brush your teeth and change  
your shirt. We need to go back to the hospital." 

The scowl was instantaneous. "I am fine, Scully," he said,  
annunciating each word with exaggerated care. "I promise I  
won' lapse into a coma. No more hospital." 

"Not for that -- though it was incredibly stupid," Scully  
replied. "Palermo neglected to take a couple of x-rays  
before you checked out. He knows we're coming, it will  
only take a few minutes." 

Mulder eyed her suspiciously. "X-rays? What for?" 

*Think fast, Dana.* 

"He needs to be sure the swelling didn't compress the spinal  
cord. It'll just take a few films of your neck and upper back  
to be sure." 

"Wouldn't I be in pain, have some kinda symptoms?"  
Mulder asked, but he did get rather unsteadily to his feet  
and head for the bathroom. 

"Probably, but not necessarily. It's just a precaution,  
Mulder. I promise, we'll be in and out." 

Scully could hear him muttering something like "that's  
what you always say" as the door started to swing shut.  
She'd picked up his gun and was about to slip it into her  
pocket when she realized he was watching from the  
doorway. 

"Scully," he said softly. "Did you mean it? Or is *that* why  
you said it?" 

She paused, taking in the disheveled hair, rumpled shirt,  
and wistful expression, and a knot in her stomach began to  
unravel. "Oh, I meant it, Mulder. Trust me." 

He smiled, one of the rare, breathstealing ones she'd come  
to prize. "Only you, Scully." He gripped the door, then  
paused. "And Scully? Me too." 

As soon as she heard the water running she pulled out her  
cell phone and dialed the hospital, pacing nervously until  
Palermo was located and put on the line. 

"Dana, I've been waiting for you. Are you and Mulder  
coming or not?" he asked with a touch of impatience. 

"Yes, we should be there in about twenty minutes. Dr.  
Palermo, I don't want Mulder to know why we're taking the  
x-rays -- at least at this time. I told him they were just a  
precaution, to be certain the swelling he experienced didn't  
extend to the spinal chord." 

Palermo snorted. "And he *bought* that?" 

"His degree is in psychology, not medicine," she answered  
tartly. She didn't mention that a bottle of scotch had left his  
cognitive ability a bit substandard. 

"Sorry, I realize that," Palermo said contritely. "I'm not sure  
I can go along with your request, though. Bad enough that I  
don't completely understand the purpose of these x-rays in  
the first place. I won't knowingly deceive my patient." 

The water shut off, and Scully moved around the corner  
into the kitchen, lowering her voice still further. "Dr.  
Palermo, if I'm right about this we will be able to put an  
end to Mulder's headaches. But if I'm not... His emotional  
state is very precarious right now. I'm not sure he could  
handle being offered hope only to have it snatched away.  
Please. Do this for me, for him." 

Palermo was silent, and she could almost see him debating  
with himself. Finally he heaved a long sigh. "I won't lie to  
him. But I will let you field his questions." 

The bathroom door opened and she heard Mulder pad into  
his bedroom, then the sound of a drawer being opened. The  
knot in Scully's stomach uncoiled a bit further. 

"Thank you, Doctor. I owe you." 

He chuckled. "Careful, Dr. Scully. You two are running up  
quite a tab." 

She'd just closed the phone when Mulder appeared in the  
doorway, still bleary-eyed but looking a bit more  
presentable. "Who were you talking to?" 

"Palermo. Just checking to be sure he's expecting us." 

Mulder snagged his leather jacket off the coat tree and  
slipped it on. "Let's get this over with." 

Scully nodded and followed him through the door. 

*I hope so, Mulder. I hope so.*  
  


Georgetown Memorial  
Wednesday  
7:03 p.m.  
  


"I'm sorry, Dana. I know you thought you were on to  
something." 

Scully stared at the films, the knuckle of her index finger  
pressed to her lips, and tried to fight off a crushing wave of  
disappointment. She scanned each of the four x-rays from  
top to bottom, despite the fact that she'd already done so at  
least three times. The results were the same. 

Nothing. 

"I was certain I'd find one," she murmured. "It would have  
explained everything. She blew out a small puff of air and  
shook her head. "Maybe the angle is wrong, maybe it's  
there and we're just missing it." 

"You know as well as I do that these are adequate. If  
this...chip you're looking for were there, we'd see it." Dr.  
Palermo reached up to flick off the light box. "I wish I had  
more to offer, but I'm fresh out of ideas." 

She mustered a half-hearted smile. "You've been more than  
helpful. I'm just glad I didn't mention this to Mulder. He's  
having a hard enough time coming to terms with  
everything." 

"So I gathered. Mixing alcohol and Dilantin is dangerous as  
well as irresponsible." Palermo rolled his shoulders and  
rubbed the back of his neck. "What are you planning on  
doing with him?" 

Scully glanced across the room, wry affection twisting her  
lips. "Good question." 

Mulder's lanky form draped inelegantly across the bed, one  
arm suspended in midair and the other curled under his  
chin. Lips slightly parted, he snored softly, eyes darting  
back and forth beneath the lids. 

"I'd *planned* on dropping him at his apartment before I  
went into the office -- I have to work tonight," she  
explained. "I didn't count on him passing out cold while we  
were waiting for the films to develop." 

Palermo pursed his lips and glanced at his watch. "I'm on  
call so I'll probably just crash on a cot in the lounge. As  
you probably noticed when you came in, there's not much  
going on around here tonight. You can leave him for now  
and pick him up in a few hours. I'll have the nurses keep an  
eye on him. Between the chemicals in his system and the  
behavior you described, I'd feel better if he wasn't left  
alone." 

Scully sagged a little in relief. "Another one on the tab,"  
she said ruefully. "Now you know why Mulder is a legend  
around here." 

Palermo collected the x-rays, slipped them into a folder,  
and handed it to her. "Trouble does seem to follow in his  
wake," he concurred. "Have a nurse let me know when you  
take him home. He should be a lot less groggy once he has  
a few hours of sleep under his belt." 

Scully caught his sleeve as he moved past her to the door.  
"Thank you." 

He gave her a mock salute. "My pleasure. You know, in  
spite of the rumors regaling Mulder as the patient from hell,  
I *like* him." 

Scully's lips quirked. "Sounds like an X-File." 

Palermo laughed. "Just hit the lights on your way out. He'll  
probably never know you're gone." 

Scully walked slowly over to the gurney and stared down  
into Mulder's face, features softened by sleep. She fingered  
a stray lock of hair, pleased to see it was growing out and  
losing what she privately referred to as the "weed whacker"  
look. When she'd bullied her way into Mulder's hospital  
room upon returning from Africa, the drastic deterioration  
of his condition had stolen the breath from her lungs. His  
lean, runner's body wasted to the point of gauntness. His  
expressive hazel eyes fixed and vacant. And the thick, dark  
hair she longed to touch cropped close to his skull. The  
only recourse, Skinner explained, because in the extremity  
of his pain Mulder would literally tear it from his head. 

When she'd gone home that evening Scully had wept for  
the big things --Mulder's slide towards death, Skinner's  
duplicity and the knowledge she was alone in her fight to  
save him, and the crippling blow to her faith dealt by an  
alien craft. But she'd wept for the little things as well --  
eyes that revealed no pleasure at the sight of her face, limp  
hands lying apathetically in restraints, and the loss of that  
stubborn lock of wayward hair. 

Scully trailed her fingers down the side of Mulder's face,  
brushing the backs against the rough stubble of his jaw. She  
could feel the weight of his gun in her pocket, a not so  
subtle reminder that the tranquil expression was deceptive.  
She'd arrived in time today, managed to tug Mulder away  
from the edge of the abyss. She wasn't naïve enough,  
however, to believe he wouldn't slide back. Mulder could  
be excessively moody and introspective even at the best of  
times. With life as he'd always known it crumbled to ruins,  
what would emerge remained to be seen. There would be  
dark days ahead, for them both. 

"I once said you keep unfolding like a flower, Mulder," she  
murmured. "Don't be afraid of what's underneath. I haven't  
been disappointed so far." 

Mulder's fingers twitched and he mumbled something  
undecipherable before subsiding. Scully carefully tucked  
the dangling arm through the bedrail and pulled the sheet  
up to his shoulders. With a final caress to his cheek she  
dimmed the lights and stepped into the hallway. 

As if on cue her cell phone trilled insistently, drawing  
disapproving looks from several nurses. Lifting a pacifying  
hand, Scully flipped the phone open while walking briskly  
toward the automatic doors. 

"Scully." 

"I have been stalling the Assistant Director for nearly three  
hours, Dana. My wife will be very unhappy if I come home  
a eunuch." 

Laughter erupted from somewhere near her toes, and she  
could only give in to it. When she finally regained her  
composure, still snorting and wiping her eyes, it felt as if  
her heart had been released from a vise. 

"Thank you, Digger," she gasped. "You have no idea how  
much I needed that." 

Digger humphed, trying to sound irritated but too pleased  
by her reaction to pull it off. "Glad to be of entertainment.  
Where the hell have you been?" He caught himself.  
"Mulder is all right, isn't he?" 

"That's a loaded question, Digger. Let's just say I think he  
will be. Did we get the warrant?" 

Digger lowered his voice. "Of course we got the warrant --  
why else would I have Skinner breathing down my neck?  
Jeffreys is giving him some major grief about waiting for  
you. Paxton left the office over an hour ago and Watkins  
and Schneider have him staked out. The only thing keeping  
us from searching that office is the pleasure of your  
company." 

Scully slid behind the wheel and turned the ignition. "I've  
said it before, but I'll say it again. You really know how to  
sweet talk a girl, Digger. I've got the address of Paxton's  
office. I'll meet you there." 

"It's a date," he replied. "Just don't tell Spooky. We  
wouldn't want to make him jealous." 

Scully sighed and rolled her eyes. "He's my partner, it's not  
like..." 

She trailed off, feeling the heat in her cheeks. Which side  
of that line were they on again? 

Digger made a rude sound of disbelief. "Uh-huh. Save the  
fairy tales for the kiddies, Dana. I'll see ya in fifteen." 

He hung up while she was still desperately searching for a  
clever retort.  
  


Office of Dr. Sean Paxton  
Wednesday  
8:24 p.m.  
  


"Okay, I'm in. What exactly are we looking for?" Digger  
asked, fingers flying over the keys. 

Scully leaned over his shoulder, hands braced on the back  
of his chair. "I'm not sure. I'll know when I see it." 

Digger's hands stilled long enough for him to shoot her a  
venomous look. "That narrows things down." 

She watched him open and close various folders,  
occasionally tearing her eyes from the screen to observe  
Skinner and Gentry as they searched a bank of filing  
cabinets. Skinner felt her scrutiny and held up some  
folders. 

"Medical records on our victims. They seem pretty straight  
forward but you'll want to take a look." 

Digger's low whistle distracted her from replying. He'd  
hunched further over the console, body posture  
communicating excitement. 

"What is it?" Scully asked. 

"One heck of a large file. And it's password protected." 

"What's it called?" 

Digger snorted. "Just 'Omega.'" 

*The End* 

Scully shivered, pulling her jacket more tightly around her  
shoulders. "That's it. I need to see that file, Digger." 

"I'd love to oblige, but we have to get in first. I need a  
password --you having any of those Dana Scully  
epiphanies?" 

Scully started to retort, then went very still. "Try 'Purity  
Control,'" she said tersely. 

Digger frowned, but typed in the words. When the  
computer emitted the equivalent of a raspberry, he raised an  
eyebrow. 

"Just 'Purity' then," Scully suggested, mentally crossing her  
fingers. 

A staccato of clicks, silence, and then a soothing chime as  
the file opened, displaying a subdirectory that contained a  
list of about thirty names. Or rather, thirty variations of the  
same name -- Mary -- with a string of six digits attached. 

Digger double clicked on one of them and the screen  
flooded with a jumble of characters that at first glance  
looked to be nothing more than gibberish. 

"Whatever the hell this is, he's got it encrypted out the  
wazoo," Digger growled, sounding personally insulted.  
"This is way beyond the capabilities of some fertility  
specialist with a rinky-dink password like Purity." 

Scully reached over and appropriated the mouse, scrolling  
down. She closed the file and clicked on another name with  
the same results. 

"I think this is medical data," she murmured. 

Skinner, noticing their intensity, walked over to peer at the  
screen. 

"Can you crack that?" he asked Digger, eyes roaming over  
the collection of letters, numbers, and symbols. 

Digger shrugged. "Won't know till I try." 

Scully backed out of the file to the directory. She stared at  
the screen, lip caught between her teeth. Skinner's eyes  
darted back and forth between the display and her face. 

"What is it, Agent Scully?" 

"I think our victims are in there somewhere," she said  
thoughtfully. "This is a list of test subjects." 

Skinner's brow furrowed. "What makes you say that? And  
why are they all named Mary?" 

"I can recognize some simple medical data amidst the  
encryption," Scully replied, selecting MARY891026. "This  
looks like it could be CBC results." She pointed to a group  
of numbers. "And this is blood pressure readings. As for  
the name..." She trailed off with a short, bitter laugh. "They  
are so damn arrogant." 

"What?" Digger demanded. "What does it mean?" 

Scully rubbed at the dull ache that had settled just over her  
eyes. "If these women are the unwitting test subjects that  
Mulder and I believe them to be, they're an attempt to  
produce a new breed of human being." She looked at  
Skinner. "One resistant to the threat of the black oil and  
therefore invulnerable to the attempts of alien  
colonization." 

When she saw Skinner's incredulous expression, she  
chuffed a small laugh and shook her head. "What can I say,  
sir? My trip to Africa was...enlightening." 

"Hold it, hold it, hold it!" Digger snapped, waving a hand  
like a kid trying to grab his teacher's attention. "Time out.  
What in God's name is black oil, and what does it have to  
do with aliens taking over the planet?" 

Scully glanced over to see Gentry frozen in the midst of a  
drawer of files, his jaw literally hanging open. At her glare,  
he swallowed hard and resumed his rummaging. 

"The black oil is a virus of extraterrestrial origin," she said  
to Digger, lowering her voice. "Mulder believes the spread  
of the virus would lead to alien colonization of this planet." 

"So you're saying that these women, and our victims, were  
carrying babies genetically manipulated to be immune to  
the virus?" Skinner said, jaw clenched. 

Scully took and deep breath and let it out slowly,  
wondering just how she'd gotten here. Dana Scully, chief  
skeptic, saddled with the unenviable task of convincing  
others of the possibility of alien colonization. *That* was  
an X-File. Mulder would be so proud. 

"Yes sir. That's exactly what I'm saying." 

"So where does the name Mary come in?" Digger asked. 

Scully folded her arms tightly across her chest, as if to  
contain the rage that simmered inside of her. "Don't you  
know your Bible gentlemen? Mary was the mother of Jesus  
\-- the savior of the world."  
  


Georgetown  
Thursday  
8:30 a.m.  
  


Mulder rolled onto his stomach and inhaled deeply. Scully  
always smelled so nice. Not artificial, drenched in  
expensive perfume the way Phoebe used to smell; but fresh  
and clean like the outdoors on a warm spring day. He'd  
wondered about that smell for a long time before going  
snooping in her apartment one night while she was out  
picking up Chinese for dinner. With minimal invasion of  
her privacy, he'd solved the mystery in her bathroom. Lined  
up neatly along the tub were small bottles of various oils,  
soaps, and lotions from someplace called "Bath and Body  
Works." He'd opened one to take an exploratory sniff,  
pleased to identify the familiar fragrance. Scully's key in  
the lock had sent him scrambling guiltily for the sink,  
where he'd covered his nosiness by washing his hands. 

He sucked in another deep breath and snuggled his face a  
little more deeply into the pillow. It would probably be the  
end of his insomnia if he could find a way to make his  
sheets smell like Scully's, instead of... 

Wait a minute.  


Scully's sheets? Mulder's eyes cranked cautiously open.  
Yep. This was Scully's bed all right. He propped himself up  
on his arms and gazed blearily around the empty bedroom  
before flopping back down with a small groan. This made  
two times in less than a week that he'd awakened stripped  
to his underwear in Scully's bed with only a hazy  
recollection of how he'd gotten there. That wouldn't be a  
bad thing, except that he knew he'd done nothing more  
exciting than sleep. 

Alone. 

His eyes felt as if there were ground glass in the sockets,  
and the taste in his mouth defied description. Mulder  
shoved the blankets aside and sat up, running his tongue  
over his teeth and grimacing. Every time he drank too  
much he felt this way, and every time he felt this way he  
swore off drinking too much. Pathetic. 

He found his jeans on the chair and pulled them on, then  
padded out of the bedroom, barefoot and barechested. The  
apartment was still and quiet, no clink of dishes in the  
kitchen, no tap of fingers on keys. 

"Scully?" 

No answer, but when he ambled into the kitchen he  
discovered three items awaiting him, displayed prominently  
on the counter -- aspirin, a tall glass of water, and a folded  
piece of paper labeled "Mulder." Downing the tablets  
gratefully, he sipped the water and opened the note. 

"Mulder, 

Went to work early today. The DC police brought in  
Paxton last night, and I'm scheduled to talk to him later this  
morning. I'll be back at noon with some lunch and to drive  
you home. Until then, take it easy and DO NOT get  
sunflower seeds in the couch cushions." 

Unsigned, but that was oddly comforting. After all, they  
didn't even say goodbye when they hung up the phone.  
Mulder helped himself to Scully's wonderful, caffeine-  
laden coffee and a piece of toast. Still munching, he  
wandered into the living room, dropped onto the couch, and  
flicked on the television. 

Oprah, The Price Is Right, and Blue's Clues -- the rapidly  
flashing screen images couldn't distract him from his own  
dark musings. Mid-morning on a weekday, and here he was  
in ratty jeans watching bad television. Welcome to your  
new life, Fox Mulder. 

Mulder closed his eyes, recalling Scully's face when she'd  
found him half-crocked and contemplating the benefits of a  
well-placed bullet. He was torn between embarrassment  
that she had witnessed him flirting with suicide and  
disappointment that she'd stopped him from carrying  
through. Her arguments, so persuasive in the warm circle of  
her arms, lacked conviction in the harsh light of day. 

Scully could talk all she liked about layers and exploring  
his other gifts, words that sounded good until you pulled  
them apart to reach the heart of the matter. He'd always  
valued the truth -- both in the telling and the receiving. So  
how could he be any less than honest with himself, even if  
the truth was particularly brutal? 

Fox Mulder didn't *want* to "peel away the old life." 

Crazy? Maybe. Who could possibly prefer a life of constant  
danger? Where an average day included murder,  
kidnapping, gunshots, snakebites and alien retroviruses?  
Liver-eating mutants, tentacled sea monsters, and The  
Great Mutato? Seedy motel rooms, cheap diners, and  
endless hours either hunched over the wheel of a car or  
crammed into an economy class airplane seat? What man in  
his right mind would give a passing thought to trading in  
that life for a new, and hopefully improved, version? 

Fox Mulder. 

Because for every abuse to his body there were Scully's  
small, capable hands to soothe and heal. For every  
impossible freak of nature, there was the roll of her blue  
eyes and the arch of a perfect eyebrow. And for every hour  
on the road there was the pleasure of her company --  
whether the rare treasure of a shared tidbit from her  
childhood or the grounding influence of her keen, logical  
mind applied to their work. 

In spite of the pain and disappointment that frequently  
dogged his steps, he loved his job and he loved his life.  
Peeling it away opened a wound so deep he feared it might  
never heal. 

Feeling the onset of another downward spiral, Mulder  
scrabbled for something else to occupy his mind. The  
thought of Scully interrogating Paxton without him only  
increased the moroseness of his mood. He silenced Oprah  
midway through a speech about the importance of  
childproofing your home and lunged to his feet. Pacing the  
circumference of Scully's apartment like a caged animal,  
his gaze happened to land on her laptop and a stack of file  
folders neatly piled on the corner of her desk. His good  
conscience lasted for about ten seconds before knuckling  
under to overpowering curiosity. 

In a matter of minutes he was situated back on the couch,  
Scully's laptop booted up and the files spread across her  
coffee table. Dr. Paxton's medical records for each of the  
victims, he noted, and then hit the jackpot. A dark green  
floppy disk labeled "Paxton's computer files" in Scully's  
precise hand. 

She'd jotted a brief page of notes mentioning the password  
and outlining her thoughts on the "Marys." Mulder's smile  
widened to a grin as he read the words "hybridization" and  
"colonization." 

"That's my girl," he said, slipping the disk into the drive  
and punching in the password. 

He couldn't do much with the encrypted data -- that was  
Digger's department. But the code-names for the women...  
Mulder went back to Scully's desk and rummaged around  
until he located a pad of paper and pencil. He reclined  
comfortably on the couch with the computer propped on his  
legs and began playing with the number strings attached to  
the names. 

MARY860512 provided the key that unlocked the puzzle.  
Between the steadily building headache and the  
capriciousness of his eidetic memory, Mulder might never  
have made the connection. But it just so happened that  
while reviewing the data Digger had compiled, he'd been  
struck by the date on the missing person's report for Corrie  
Jenkins. Struck, because it happened to be the exact same  
day that he received his doctorate from Oxford, just weeks  
before entering the FBI. May 12, 1986. 

"Hello Corrie Jenkins," he muttered, scrubbing absently at  
the ache in his temple with the heel of one hand. 

Fifteen minutes later the pain had become blinding but  
Mulder had managed to dredge the initial abduction dates  
for Liz Brentwood, Eve Roberts, and Traci Pritchard from  
his memory and match them to the corresponding Marys.  
He decided to let Janet Garson and Nicole Eddings slide  
until he could see their folders, returning instead to the  
encrypted files armed with the identity of their subjects. 

Ironically, he'd almost decided to quit when he stumbled  
onto the realization that there was a subset of data on an  
additional individual within Corrie Jenkins' file. He'd  
already taken two breaks to splash cold water on his face  
and allow the nausea to subside to a manageable level. The  
symbols on the screen insisted on blurring together into a  
continuous green line and his head hurt so badly he no  
longer cared about anything but making it stop. 

Until he saw the string of numbers and everything fell  
neatly into place. For a moment he could do no more than  
stare, confounded by the implications and disgusted with  
himself for not seeing it sooner. 

Corrie Jenkins was the fourth murder victim, killed on June  
6\. Listed near the end of her file was a cluster of data under  
the code B990606. A boy. Delivered on June 6, 1999. 

With trembling fingers Mulder shut the file and opened the  
one for Liz Brentwood. There, at the bottom, a similar  
string of numbers and a corresponding set of data. Liz was  
murdered at the end of January. The code number read  
G990127. A girl. Delivered on January 27, 1999. 

Fingers tripping frantically over keys, eyes squinted  
stubbornly against the pain, Mulder opened the files he'd  
identified as belonging to Eve Roberts and Traci Pritchard.  
Two more boys, birth dates simultaneous with their  
mothers' deaths. 

Mulder set the laptop carefully aside and buried his face in  
his hands, shivering with revulsion. How could they have  
been so blind? Those babies weren't failed experiments,  
evidence to be eliminated and forgotten. 

Those babies were *successful* experiments, harvested and  
spirited away for further testing while their mothers, now  
expendable, were left to die. 

Somewhere, those babies were *alive*. 

His stomach, already churning from pain and dizziness,  
twisted painfully. Staggering into the bathroom, he barely  
had time to drop to his knees before losing everything he'd  
consumed since waking. The spasms were agony, but paled  
in comparison to his anguish over those tiny, helpless souls  
created to be nothing more than pawns in the Smoker's  
cosmic game of chess. Emily's sweet, pale face swam  
before his eyes and he retched again, helplessly. 

He never heard the front door open or Scully's muttered  
curse as she viewed the evidence of his imprudence.  
Hunched over the toilet, throbbing head pressed to the  
porcelain, he was too far gone to even jump when she  
appeared in the doorway and let him have it with both  
barrels. 

"What the HELL do you think you're doing? Are you just  
stupid, or is this another attempt to kill yourself?" 

Mulder lifted his head, wiping his mouth with the back of  
his hand. "Figured it out," he croaked, blinking up at the  
fuzzy circle of her face. "I know what's going on, Scully." 

She disappeared, and he heard the door of the linen closet  
slam open, then shut. She stormed back into the room and  
wrenched on the cold water, wetting the washcloth in her  
hand and thrusting it at him. 

"Clean yourself up. I'll be waiting in the living room." 

So that's how it was going to be. She was obviously well  
past the point of being furious, rapidly approaching  
homicidal. Mulder wiped his face and then pressed the  
cloth to the back of his neck, gathering himself for the task  
of rising. Somehow he was able to stand, flush the toilet,  
and rinse his mouth. Moving with all the speed and agility  
of a ninety-year-old, he navigated his way back to the  
couch and sank down with a grunt. 

Scully sat rigidly in the chair, arms folded and expression  
furious. Mulder waited for her to speak, to continue the  
diatribe she'd begun in the bathroom, but she simply stared  
a hole through the carpet and remained mute. 

"I'm sorry I went behind your back." 

Her eyes flicked to his face, then quickly away and she  
chewed on the inside of her cheek. "No you aren't. You're  
just sorry you got caught." 

What could he possibly say to that? It was true. 

"I'm sorry I disappointed you. Sorry that I can't seem to be  
the person you think I can be." An edge crept into his  
voice, the physical pain and the psychological horror taking  
their toll. "This is who I *am*, Scully. You want me to give  
that all up, become a stranger. I don't know how to do that.  
I don't want to." 

Scully leaned sharply forward her eyes blazing. "Then you  
will *die*, Mulder." 

For the first time in nearly two days he felt a sense of  
peace. "That's right," he agreed gently. "I'll die Mulder. The  
person I know, the only one I want to be. If you really love  
me, Scully, you'll accept that." 

She stood and walked to the window, and he could only  
watch the shifting muscles in her back. Her voice was  
tightly controlled, but soft. "What were you babbling about  
the case? What did you figure out? Because Paxton isn't  
talking. We don't have enough to hold the son of a bitch for  
long, and he knows it." 

"Come here." 

She obliged reluctantly, sitting close enough to see the  
screen but not touch him. 

"The code number for each Mary corresponds to the initial  
abduction date. This is Liz Brentwood." He pointed to one.  
"And this is Traci Pritchard. I've got everyone but Janet  
Garson and Nicole Eddings deciphered." He rubbed his  
brow, quickly dropping his hand at her piercing look. 

"Digger's working on the encryption," she said, watching as  
he opened Liz Brentwood's file. "He's having trouble  
making headway. I gave the boys a call and they promised  
to take a look." 

Mulder nodded absently, scrolling down to the second code  
number. "Here. This is another set of data, Scully. Another  
test subject. The number corresponds to Liz Brentwood's  
date of death. And the letter..." 

Scully pressed shaky fingers to her lips. "Girl," she  
whispered. 

"Yeah," Mulder confirmed bleakly. 

She tore her eyes from the screen to study his face. "Then  
that means..." 

"They're alive, Scully. All of them. We just don't know  
where." 

Scully's eyes flooded with tears, then turned to stone. "But  
I'll bet Paxton does," she said, standing. 

Mulder set aside the computer and rose as well. "I'm  
coming with you. Just take me by my place so I can get a  
suit." 

Scully's head was shaking vehemently, her grip on his arm  
hard enough to bruise. "No way. Skinner has you on  
medical leave, remember? I may not be able to stop you  
from poking through my desk but he will definitely stop  
you from seeing Paxton." 

"I put this together and I want to be there," Mulder snapped  
irately. "I have a right to be there!" 

Scully rounded on him. "You have no rights after what you  
did this morning! You betrayed my trust by going through  
my desk and accessing files that were forbidden to you!  
And for God's sakes, Mulder, stop picking at your finger!  
You've been doing that all the time lately and it's making  
me crazy!" 

The complete switch of subjects totally derailed Mulder's  
fury and he stared at her blankly. "Huh? What are you  
talking about?" 

His complete bafflement shamed her and Scully wished she  
could take the words back. After all, it didn't have anything  
to do with their argument and she'd promised herself she  
wouldn't embarrass him by bringing it to his attention. 

"Forget it, Mulder." 

"No, you brought it up. What did you mean?" 

"That!" Scully said, exasperated, gesturing to where his  
thumb was rubbing the knuckle of his fourth finger. "Why  
do you keep rubbing that finger? You never used to do  
that." 

As she'd feared, he did look disconcerted and a little  
defensive. "It tingles," he replied petulantly. "It has ever  
since I was...sick. They had it taped up for a while -- guess  
maybe I broke it." 

For just a moment Scully forgot to breathe. Paxton, the  
murdered women, and even the missing babies faded to the  
background and all she could see was Mulder's left hand.  
With abrupt clarity she recognized that each time she'd  
observed Mulder's nervous habit he'd been engaged either  
in deductive thinking or trying to remember something.  
And the headaches inevitably followed. 

"Let me see it," she said, grabbing hold of his hand before  
he could offer it. 

"Scully! This is no big deal, we need to talk to Paxton and  
find out... What?" 

Scully pointed to a small, hairline scar that ran along the  
inside of his fourth finger. 

"What is that?" he asked quietly. 

"I'll need an x-ray to be sure," Scully replied, her voice  
wired with a combination of excitement and anger. "But I  
think we just found the cause of the tingling -- and your  
headaches."  
  


Georgetown Memorial  
Thursday  
1:34 p.m.  
  


"*That* is the damnedest thing I've ever seen," Dr. Palermo  
said, shaking his head. "It definitely makes up for being  
dragged back here after a night on call." 

The light box in front of him displayed two different views  
of Mulder's left hand, the tiny chip clearly visible in each. 

"I owe you an apology," Palermo went on, turning to look  
at Scully, whose eyes were still fixed on the x-rays. "I'll  
admit when you wanted to look for that thing in his neck, I  
was only humoring you. It sounded so far fetched, I thought  
you were just grasping at straws." 

Scully smiled. "Apology accepted. What matters is that you  
did humor me -- then and now." 

Mulder put his hands on his hips and scowled. "Those other  
x-rays -- you were looking for a microchip? You said you  
were checking for compression of my spinal cord!" 

Scully ducked her head guiltily. "Mulder, all I had was a  
suspicion. I didn't want to raise your hopes one minute only  
to dash them to pieces the next." She gazed up from under a  
sweep of auburn hair. "You'd already been through so  
much." 

The anger seeped out of his face, leaving only chagrin. "I'll  
admit I wasn't exactly at my emotional best," he said wryly.  
"Now, who's going to take that out of my finger?" 

"I can do it right here, with a local anesthetic," Palermo  
said agreeably. "Go sit down on the gurney and I'll get  
things ready." 

Mulder took a seat as indicated. The gurney was locked in  
an upright position so that he was only slightly reclined,  
and his eyes followed Palermo nervously as the surgeon  
moved about the room. 

"How's the headache?" Scully asked, sensing his uneasiness  
and hoping to distract him. 

Mulder appeared to think about it for a moment, then  
shrugged. "Not bad. I hate to say it, but I think I've almost  
become accustomed to a certain level of pain. As long as  
I'm not ready to pass out or throw up, I know I'm doing all  
right." 

Scully's lips thinned, her jaw tight with animosity. "Just  
when I think I couldn't possibly hate that bastard any more  
than I do, he proves me wrong." 

Mulder reached out to take her hand, enveloping it in his.  
"Hey," he said softly, drawing her back from the darkness.  
"He didn't win this one. You did." 

She smiled, turning her hand so short fingers could wriggle  
between long. "No, *you* did." She hesitated. "You  
understand, Mulder, we won't know anything for sure until  
the chip is out and..." 

"*I* know," Mulder said firmly. "I can feel it, Scully. It's  
like the volume has been turned up, and what was just an  
annoying buzz is now blaring at maximum amplification. I  
just want to be rid of it." 

“I understand that. But there’s something else I think you  
should consider before you let Dr. Palermo take out that  
chip.” 

He started shaking his head before she finished speaking. “I  
know what you’re going to say, Scully. And frankly, it just  
doesn’t matter to me.” 

“Then maybe you’d better think a little harder,” Scully  
replied a bit sharply. “We don’t know the possible side  
effects to removing this chip. As someone who’s already  
walked that path, I can assure you the view isn’t pleasant.” 

Mulder stared at their entwined hands, then up at her face.  
“I know. You might not have always known it, but I was  
walking that path with you. I understand the risks, Scully.  
But right now the only side effect I care about is that the  
headaches will go away.” His voice lowered, turning  
wistful. "I just want my life back." 

"Okay, we're all set," Palermo said cheerfully, swinging a  
table across the gurney and adjusting it until Mulder could  
rest his arm comfortably on top. 

Mulder eyed the stainless steel tray bearing instruments and  
a hypodermic needle and licked his lips. "Then again..." 

The doctor chuckled. "Relax. The worst part will be the  
Lidocaine injections to numb the area. After that we're  
home free and you won't feel a thing." 

"Easy for you to say," Mulder muttered as he watched  
Palermo swab the finger with disinfectant. "You're the one  
holding the needle." 

Palermo pulled up the paper mask that hung loosely around  
his neck and secured it over his nose and mouth. "Mulder,  
I've seen your file, remember? It makes War and Peace  
look like a vignette. In the grander scheme of things this  
will hardly be worth mentioning." He lifted the syringe.  
"Ready?" 

Scully tightened her fingers. "Look at me, Mulder, not the  
needle." 

He actually managed a smile at that. "No contest, Scully." 

Palermo was right -- compared to being clawed by  
mothmen or chomped on by zombies, the removal of the  
chip was quick and relatively painless. A minor  
complication arose due to the fact that the chip had lodged  
next to the bone, making extraction more difficult. Palermo  
handled the unexpected with calm reassurances,  
maneuvering the forceps carefully until he triumphantly  
produced the tiny piece of electronics. Ten minutes later  
Mulder was stitched, bandaged, and holding the offending  
object in a specimen cup. 

"Thank you," he told the doctor, accepting Scully's  
steadying hand as he slipped off the bed. "For letting us  
drag you in here on your day off, and for the impromptu  
surgery." 

Palermo grinned. "No problem. As I told your partner, life  
may have been easier before I met you, but it was also less  
interesting." 

Mulder rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I get that a lot." 

"You've had stitches before, the usual applies. Don't get  
them wet for the first 48 hours, keep changing the bandage  
and applying the antibiotic cream -- oh, and you'd better  
take this." 

He produced a prescription pad and quickly filled one out.  
"Here's something for the pain. I had to do a little digging  
around in there and you're going to feel it. You're all right  
for now, but once the anesthetic wears off it'll be another  
story." 

Mulder grimaced. "Great. Something to look forward to." 

"I'll see you in a week for another neuro check up. With  
any luck we'll put this whole experience to rest. How's that  
for something to look forward to?" 

Mulder stole a quick glance at Scully before replying.  
"Works for me, Doc." 

Her lips curved. "Me too."  
  


DC Police Station  
Thursday  
3:16 p.m.  
  


Dr. Sean Paxton was of medium height, with a thin,  
bookish face and wire-rimmed glasses. He compensated for  
a receding hairline by growing the rest long and combing it  
over the top of his head. Consequently, he had the habit of  
smoothing locks back when they tried to tumble forward  
into his eyes. 

He sat carefully at the table and folded his hands, looking  
politely from Mulder to Scully as if he were a candidate for  
a job interview rather than a murder suspect undergoing  
interrogation. 

"Dr. Paxton, I'm Agent Mulder from the Federal Bureau of  
Investigation. I believe you've already met Agent Scully.  
We need to ask you a few more questions regarding the  
deaths of your patients." 

"I already told Agent Scully everything I know this  
morning," Paxton said reasonably. "I can't imagine how I  
could shed any more light on your investigation." 

"It must be very disturbing for you -- six of your patients  
murdered in cold blood, the lives of their unborn children  
brought to such a brutal end," Mulder said, shaking his  
head. 

"Of course it's disturbing! Not nearly as disturbing,  
however, as finding out you are some kind of suspect,"  
Paxton sniffed. "I'm in the profession of creating and  
preserving life, Agent Mulder, not taking it." 

Mulder leaned back comfortably in his chair, keeping his  
bandaged hand folded across his chest and slightly  
elevated. "You weren't always, though. I understand that  
you were initially involved in research, rather than  
medicine. Genetics, the recombination of DNA -- sounds  
fascinating." 

Paxton eyed him warily, as if confused by the change of  
subject. "It was. We did some ground-breaking work in  
locating a cure for several diseases." 

Mulder looked puzzled. "So what made you decide to go  
into practice? If the work was so fulfilling, I mean?" 

Paxton shrugged. "I suppose it was the people connection,  
Agent Mulder. Research is all well and good, but it can  
become tiresome when you never see the people you're  
trying to help." 

Mulder nodded thoughtfully. "I see what you mean." He  
paused. "I suppose the ultimate job, then, would allow you  
to perform the research and yet be able to see the people it  
was affecting at the same time. Kind of the best of both  
worlds." 

Paxton stiffened, his demeanor cooling twenty degrees.  
"That would be impossible, Agent Mulder, since with very  
few exceptions the practice of experimenting on human  
beings is ethically, not to mention legally, forbidden." 

This time Mulder shrugged. "True. Still, I would imagine  
there are ways to get around that -- especially if you're  
convinced of the *purity* of your purpose. I mean, say you  
knew the fruits of your research could eventually wind up  
saving the human race from extinction. A few human test  
subjects would be a small price to pay, right?" 

Paxton licked his lips and swiped nervously at a strand of  
hair. "I don't know what you're talking about. I help couples  
conceive babies, Agent Mulder. While of great importance  
to them, I'd hardly say it impacts the planet." 

Mulder leaned forward and rested his hands on the table.  
"But these aren't ordinary babies, are they?" 

"What do you mean?" 

Mulder scratched his head. "Dr. Paxton, could a baby  
survive if taken from the womb at, say, eighteen to twenty  
weeks gestation?" 

Paxton pushed the hair back again with slightly trembling  
fingers. "It's highly unlikely." 

"Not anymore," Scully spoke up. Paxton's eyes jumped  
apprehensively over to her, as if he'd forgotten her  
presence. "With the advances in medicine and the  
technology available now, babies have routinely survived  
premature births at only twenty weeks." 

"Agent Scully is also a medical doctor," Mulder said  
matter-of-factly. 

Paxton squirmed. 

"You've probably delivered more than your share of babies  
over the years," Mulder mused. "Am I right?" 

Paxton just nodded, obviously uncomfortable with Mulder's  
hit and run style of questioning. 

"You know, one of the things I couldn't figure out about  
these murders was the complete lack of...I guess you'd call  
it passion," Mulder continued, almost as if speaking to  
himself. "I mean, you have what on the surface appears to  
be a very brutal crime -- a pregnant mother, her child  
ripped from the womb, left to die of shock and blood  
loss..." 

He picked at the bandage on his finger, then raised piercing  
eyes to Paxton's face. "But that's just superficial. There is  
a...surgical precision to the wounds inflicted on the victims.  
The knife strokes have a definite purpose, are not just  
random slashes. The women were sedated to feel a  
minimum amount of discomfort. Almost like a C-section to  
deliver a baby. Except in the hospital they don't allow the  
mother to bleed to death." 

Paxton fidgeted, shifting in his chair and pushing his  
glasses up the bridge of his nose. "What does any of that  
have to do with me?" 

Mulder leaned forward. "We know about the Marys and  
about Purity Control, Dr. Paxton. We've pulled the files  
from your computer at the office and we've matched our  
victims to them. We know you experimented on those  
women under the guise of fertility treatments. We know  
you cut them open and took their babies. And we know  
those babies are still alive. We're in the process of  
decrypting the rest of the data right now." 

Paxton turned white. "I don't know... You're crazy! Why  
would I help those women become pregnant and then steal  
their children? What would I possibly gain from that?" 

"You worked for InterGen, a subsidiary of Roush  
Laboratories. They trained you, let you conduct research in  
the hybridization of two species within the lab and then  
they set you up to give it a whirl in the real world," Mulder  
said tightly. "Treating abductees, women already subjected  
to involuntary medical procedures. You helped them get  
pregnant, but those babies weren't human -- at least not 100  
percent. Babies genetically altered with alien DNA in an  
effort to create the perfect hybrid, able to withstand  
colonization." 

Paxton glanced around the room agitatedly. "You can't  
prove any of that. You'll never be able to decipher that data,  
even I don't know how it's encoded." 

Mulder chuckled, but it was a hard, humorless sound.  
"Don't be so sure. Look how much we've been able to glean  
after less than twenty-four hours." He smoothed his tie and  
then added earnestly, "You might as well talk to us, Dr.  
Paxton. How long do you think you're going to survive  
once your employers realize we've pulled you in for  
questioning, taken a look at your files? Do you really think  
they'll leave a loose end like you hanging around to  
implicate them? What will your cigarette smoking friend  
think?" 

Paxton stared at him, mouth agape, and perspiration broke  
out on his brow. "They wouldn't... I'm crucial to this  
project!" 

"The project is over," Scully said. "Cooperate with us and  
we'll protect you.” 

“Otherwise, we'll cut you loose and you can go on home,"  
Mulder added coolly. 

Paxton buried his head in his hands with a little moan. "I'm  
not a murderer. What I did, I did for the preservation of the  
human race. That's all that matters!" 

"Help us to understand then. You admit that you altered the  
genetic material of those women? That the babies they  
carried were hybrids?" Mulder pushed. 

"Yes. I was notified in advance when a 'Mary' would be  
coming to see me and provided with the necessary genetic  
material." 

"There were at least 30 names on that list, yet we are aware  
of only six deaths," Scully pointed out. 

"Some of the women miscarried during the first month,"  
Paxton replied. "And, of course, some are still gestating  
and have yet to be delivered." 

Scully pressed the back of one hand to her lips, unable to  
mask a look of repugnance. Mulder, sensing her  
discomfort, plunged ahead. 

"Each of the women had received a positive AFP test and  
an abnormal amniocentesis. They were going to abort. Is  
that why you took the babies?" 

Paxton looked regretful. "It's an unavoidable side effect to  
the treatments we've been trying to correct. For some  
reason the hybrid tests positive for Spina Bifida or Down's  
Syndrome -- when in actuality they are perfectly healthy.  
We couldn't allow the mothers to abort in a fit of misplaced  
hysteria." 

Scully's voice was frigid. "So you killed them." 

Paxton looked at her with honest puzzlement. "We *saved*  
the children. The mothers are incidental to end goal of the  
project. Expendable." 

Mulder watched Scully's grip on her pen go white  
knuckled, feeling a bit ill himself. Paxton might have a  
degree and letters tacked on after his name, but inside he  
was built no different from any number of serial killers he  
had known. 

"There were no signs of struggle. How did you get them to  
cooperate?" he asked. 

"They were called, and they came," Paxton said  
indifferently. "My associate, Mr. Crittendon took care of  
that, as well as the disposal of the remains." He looked  
back and forth between Mulder and Scully's disgusted  
faces. "I took care of them! I treated them with the  
reverence they deserved as the mothers of our salvation,  
made sure they didn't suffer." 

Mulder tried not to rub at his finger, which had begun to  
throb. He was abruptly exhausted, sickened by Paxton and  
his warped view of reality. He just wanted to finish up the  
questioning and get as far from the man as possible. One  
look at Scully told him she was experiencing similar  
emotions. 

"Where are the babies?" he asked dully. 

Paxton answered with a tilt of his shoulders. "I don't know.  
I would meet the project leader at a designated location and  
turn them over to him. I wasn't cleared for Phase 2." 

"What about Mr. Crittendon and this project leader -- what  
was his name? Can you tell us where to find them?" 

Paxton looked horrified. "I was strictly forbidden to  
approach either one. They always contacted me at the  
appropriate time. I never knew the project leader's name,  
and I was wise enough not to ask." He shoved back a string  
of hair, eyes pleading. "You're going to protect me, you  
said you'd protect me -- right?" 

Mulder sighed and pushed himself to his feet. He opened  
the door and motioned for a guard before turning back to  
Paxton. "Don't worry, Dr. Paxton. We'll see you live to  
serve every one of the prison terms you've got coming to  
you." 

"You don't understand, that's all," Paxton said patiently as  
the officer took him by the arm to lead him back to his cell.  
"You can't see the big picture. Someday mankind will  
remember me for my work, for my contribution to its  
deliverance from annihilation. You'll see." 

"You okay, Scully?" Mulder asked when the guard had  
cleared Paxton from the room. 

She gave a slight shake of her head. "We have to find those  
babies, Mulder." 

"The answer has to be in those files somewhere. I believe  
Paxton when he says he doesn't know how they're  
encrypted. I'll bet his associate, the mysterious Mr.  
Crittendon, handled all the data entry. Paxton is just a  
pawn." 

"Paxton is a cold blooded murderer with delusions of  
grandeur," Scully replied, a slight tremor to the words.  
"How's your head?" 

Mulder's eyes widened. "I never stopped to think..." He  
smiled. "I'm good, Scully. My finger is killing me, but my  
head feels terrific." 

Scully stood and collected her briefcase. "I'm glad to hear  
it, Mulder. And I wouldn't worry about your finger. Once  
Skinner finds out you participated in this interrogation  
you'll be worrying about more important parts of your  
anatomy." 

Mulder gave her his best leer. "Ooo, Scully. It's nice to  
know you appreciate their value." 

Internally, she was delighted to see the old Mulder back.  
Externally, she gave the appropriate response. 

"Shut up, Mulder."  
  


FBI Headquarters  
Thursday  
5:51 p.m.  
  


Someone was driving red-hot needles into his finger with  
each heartbeat. Mulder cast a furtive look at Scully,  
confirming that she was still absorbed in reading Paxton's  
paper file on Traci Pritchard. Keeping his eyes on her, he  
covertly reached over with his right hand and rubbed at the  
offending digit. 

"Stop that. You're just going to make it worse." 

How did she do that? He would swear she'd never taken her  
eyes from the folder. 

"It hurts," he whined, sneaking in one more stroke before  
desisting. "And how do you know I'm doing anything to it?  
You're reading that file." 

"It's called peripheral vision, Mulder. Mothers of small  
children have been employing it for centuries," Scully said  
dryly, still never lifting her gaze from the page. "Why don't  
you just take one of the damn pills?" 

"Are you crazy? And face Skinner stoned? I plan to have  
all my wits about me, thanks anyway. I'll take one after this  
meeting." Mulder tried to settle himself more comfortably  
in his chair, ignoring the feeling that Janet Reno was  
watching him disapprovingly. 

"Agents." 

The door opened and Skinner strode into the room and sat  
down behind his desk. He shuffled a few papers out of the  
way before looking up at them, something dark hidden  
behind his businesslike demeanor. 

"I'm sorry about the interruption. Please continue." 

Mulder exchanged a long glance with his partner, then  
inclined his head. She met Skinner's expectant gaze and  
took a deep breath to collect her thoughts. 

"That's about all we have for now, sir. Paxton insists that he  
can tell us nothing about Mr. Crittendon, the project leader,  
or the location of the infants. Agent Mulder and I are  
hoping that the computer files will reveal something  
useful." 

"How is Agent Costanza handling the decryption?" Skinner  
asked, jaw tight and a small muscle twitching in his cheek. 

Mulder sat a little straighter and smoothed his tie, puzzled  
by the underlying anger in his supervisor's voice. "It's slow  
work, but he's making progress." 

Skinner nodded curtly. "I haven't heard an explanation for  
your participation in that interrogation, Agent Mulder. Or,  
for that matter, your presence in my office right now. I'm  
certain Agent Scully wouldn't have failed to inform you  
that you are on medical leave." 

"I understand that, sir," Mulder replied reasonably. "But  
surely you can see that leave is unnecessary now that we've  
eliminated the source of my headaches. As Agent Scully  
can confirm, I handled Paxton's questioning with absolutely  
no ill effects." 

"He's right about that, sir," Scully confirmed, shooting  
Mulder a sideways glance that said she wished he'd left her  
out of the discussion. "Prior to the removal of the chip,  
engaging in that type of activity would definitely have  
triggered a headache, yet Agent Mulder suffered no  
incidence of any pain or discomfort." 

"I'm delighted to hear that, Agent Scully. The fact remains  
that his leave has yet to be revoked and therefore he had no  
business in the police station. I'd hoped that you, at least,  
would show a bit more sense." 

Scully flushed red and her eyes narrowed. "Excuse me for  
pointing this out, sir, but Agent Mulder is an adult and..." 

"The only one responsible for my presence in that interview  
was me, sir," Mulder broke in calmly. "Agent Scully  
advised me that I was on medical leave and should allow  
her to handle it. I insisted." 

Skinner sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose.  
"Bottom line, Agents. Where are we on this case?" 

"Dr. Paxton is responsible for the deaths of our six  
victims," Mulder said. "He wielded the scalpel that inflicted  
the wounds, and he left them to die without providing life  
sustaining treatment. It's clear, however, that Paxton is  
merely a cog in a much larger machine -- and a rather  
insignificant one, at that. The men who orchestrated these  
experiments, who gave Paxton his directions, are just as  
accountable for those murders, perhaps more." 

"Yet we have no way of finding these men," Skinner said  
tersely. "No way to connect them to the deaths, or the  
missing babies." 

"There's still the possibility that the computer files will give  
us a clue," Mulder reminded him. "And I was thinking that  
perhaps if we had Paxton sit down with a sketch artist we  
could get a picture of the Mr. Crittendon and the elusive  
project leader. It might be enough to..." 

"Paxton will be of no help in finding those men, Mulder,"  
Skinner interrupted through clenched teeth. 

Mulder shook his head, baffled by the man's certainty. "I  
know he's scared, but with a little pressure..." 

"Paxton is dead, Mulder." 

Mulder saw Scully's head swivel sharply toward Skinner;  
could only stare dumfounded. 

"Sir?" she demanded. 

"That's the call that Kim pulled me out of our meeting to  
take. The DC cops said it was confidential and she wasn't  
sure if you and Mulder had clearance." Skinner's hands  
clenched the chair's armrests. "Shortly after you and  
Mulder left, Paxton had a visit from his lawyer. They met  
briefly and Paxton returned to his cell. Fifteen minutes later  
a guard found him collapsed on the floor. He was already  
dead." 

"Preliminary cause of death?" Scully asked numbly. 

"Looks like some kind of poison, though I'll be damned as  
to how it was administered. I'm having them ship the body  
to Quantico. I'd like you to perform the autopsy." 

She nodded. 

"There's more," Skinner continued. "I asked for a  
description of this 'lawyer.' Early thirties, dark hair and  
beard, green eyes. Cop said something must have been  
wrong with his left arm, since he didn't move it much." 

"Krycek. Damn it!" Mulder added several more expletives  
that had both Skinner and Scully's brows arched in surprise,  
though he didn't seem to notice. "I should have foreseen  
this, should have locked Paxton down somewhere safer!" 

"He was in a cell in the police station, Mulder," Scully  
pointed out cynically. "One would think he was safe -- at  
least for the time being." 

"Bullshit! We know these men, Scully. We should have  
known better." 

"Hindsight, Agent Mulder," Skinner said wearily. "I  
suggest you both go home and get some rest. Until  
Costanza makes some more headway with those files  
there's not much more we can do. Oh, and Agent Mulder?"  
he added as they headed for the door. 

Mulder turned back, his expression still marred by anger.  
"Sir?" 

"I'll initiate the paperwork to revoke your leave. But until I  
have a signed release from your physician in my hands you  
are still barred from this building. Is that clear?" 

"Crystal, sir." 

Mulder stalked from the office, barely restraining himself  
from slamming the door on his way out.  
  


Alexandria  
Thursday  
9:38 p.m.  
  


"Mulder, go to bed." 

Green eyes slit open and he offered her a goofy grin.  
"Scully, I thought you'd never ask." 

She rolled her eyes, nudging his head from her shoulder.  
"That pill must have been stronger than I thought. You're  
delusional." 

Mulder rubbed his eyes and squinted at the television  
screen. "You can't go yet, Scully. Marion's still in the  
Nazi's clutches." 

Scully stood and stretched, shaking out pins and needles in  
the arm that had served as his pillow. "Mulder you have  
been sawing wood for the last half hour. I need to go home  
and you need to get some real sleep." 

Mulder's protest was cut short by the ringing of his phone.  
Clicking off the television with one hand, he scooped up  
the receiver with the other. 

"Mulder." 

"Hang on to your shorts, Spooky, cuz I've got news for  
you." 

"Lay it on me," he replied, mouthing "Digger" for Scully's  
benefit. 

"I've been working on the files all day with those three  
geeky friends of yours -- you sure know how to pick 'em,  
Spook." 

"I was just thinking the same thing," Mulder replied dryly. 

"Ha, ha. Anyway, you were right, they do know their stuff.  
A few hours ago we managed to decode something that  
rang a bell and I've been pursuing it ever since." 

"Don't make me beg, Digger." 

He chuckled. "Okay, I found an allusion to something  
called Hollington Home. It's a singe reference but it occurs  
in each of the sets of data on the infants. It was the  
Hollington part that stuck with me. I was certain I'd heard  
that name before, and recently too. So I went back over the  
data I've downloaded on this case, and sure enough there it  
was. 

"It was when I was checking into Paxton's background and  
poking into InterGen Labs. Along with the stuff about how  
they were owned by Roush, there was this little news clip  
about them acquiring a parcel of land in Virginia, only  
about fifty miles from here. It was supposed to be  
designated as forest preserve, but somehow InterGen got  
their mitts on it and some conservationists weren't pleased.  
They'd been going to build another research facility there,  
but scrapped the plans after all the bad publicity. The land  
was called Hollington Woods." 

Mulder could feel his pulse speed up. Something must have  
shown on his face because Scully had ceased donning her  
coat and reseated herself beside him on the couch. 

"How much land are we talking about?" he asked,  
struggling to keep his voice level. 

"Nothing huge, just about 40 or 50 acres. But get this --  
ninety percent of it is heavily wooded. There's just one  
stretch of about 10 acres near the northwest corner that's  
relatively clear. That's where InterGen had planned to build  
the new facility." 

"Digger, I take back every snide remark and degrading  
name I've ever called you." 

"Yeah, yeah. Until next time, you mean," Digger replied  
cheerfully. 

"Where is this place?" Mulder asked, miming writing so  
that Scully would bring him pencil and paper. 

Digger read off the directions, then paused. When he  
resumed speaking his voice was sharp with concern. "What  
exactly are you planning, Spooky? You aren't going to do  
anything stupid, are you? Like running off half-cocked  
without your partner?" 

"Digger, you wound me! When have I ever exercised less  
than an adequate amount of caution?" Mulder said  
reproachfully. 

Digger snorted. "Just tell me one thing, G-man. Is Dana  
there with you?" 

Mulder cast a sidelong glance at Scully, who was drilling  
holes into his head with her eyes. "She's right next to me,  
Dad. Does that make you feel better?" 

"More than you can ever imagine," Digger replied, not  
bothering to disguise the relief in his voice. "One thing is  
for certain, Spooky. That God you don't believe in was  
looking out for your sorry ass the day Dana Scully was  
assigned to be your partner." 

"You never spoke a truer word, Digger. Thanks for the  
info." 

"You two watch yourselves. I've made my requisite  
hospital visit for the year," Digger replied. 

"I hear you." 

Mulder hung up the phone and turned to regard his partner,  
practically foaming at the mouth with curiosity. 

"What is it, Mulder? Where do those directions lead?" 

"Maybe nowhere, Scully. Or maybe to those missing  
babies." 

He stood, stripping off his white tee shirt and heading for  
the bedroom. When he returned a moment later he'd  
replaced it with a black turtleneck and was carrying his  
hiking boots. 

Scully looked up from the directions, frowning. "Mulder,  
what do you think you're doing? You heard Skinner! We  
need to run this by him, get a team out there..." 

"Paxton is already dead, Scully. How long do you think  
they're going to wait before making the rest of the evidence  
disappear?" he asked impatiently. "There's no time for a  
committee, we've got to go right now, tonight." 

She ran a hand over her face in frustration. "Mulder, you  
know I want to find those babies just as much as you." She  
shook her head. "Maybe more," she added softly. "But you  
promised Skinner." 

"Actually, I promised Skinner that I wouldn't set foot in the  
Hoover," Mulder replied smugly. "And I won't be breaking  
that promise." 

"Damn it, Mulder, you knew what he meant!" she snapped. 

He tied off his boot and turned, taking her by the shoulders.  
"Look, Scully. You and I both know I'm fine. This may be  
our one opportunity to save those kids from spending their  
lives as guinea pigs. Now, are you with me or not?" 

She looked into the intensity of his eyes and felt her  
resolution evaporate. Even wrong, he was right. They owed  
those little ones a chance. 

"Good thing I've been wearing a lot of black," she  
muttered, indicating her jeans and buttoning her black  
sweater over the white shirt beneath. "My hiking boots are  
in the trunk. Let's go."  
  


Hollington Woods  
Thursday  
11:44 p.m.  
  


Mulder lowered the binoculars and passed them to Scully.  
"It's some kind of single story facility. Can't see too much  
in the darkness, but there are lights on inside." 

She peered through the lenses for a moment. "I don't see  
any activity. Of course, it is the middle of the night. It  
could be empty or there could be only a skeleton crew." 

Mulder grinned and rose to a crouch. "Well, why don't we  
just go take a look, Agent Scully?" 

They circled the periphery of the clearing, keeping to the  
shadows of the trees until they reached the rear of the  
building. The night was crisp and clear, the sky awash with  
stars. A short sprint across open ground and they flattened  
themselves against the rough brick. Mulder inched his way  
over to a window and carefully peered inside. 

"I can't see anyone," he said sotto voice. "I'm going to  
check down there." He gestured to another set of windows  
about 100 yards away. "Scully, check the other end and  
we'll meet back here." 

A terse nod was his reply and they split up. 

This set of windows revealed a large kitchen, steeped in  
shadow but for a light on the range hood. By cupping his  
hands on either side of his face to reduce glare, Mulder  
could just make out several high chairs standing along the  
far wall. A lone baby bottle sat forlornly next to the sink, a  
tiny bit of milk still coating the bottom. He ducked back  
down and returned to where Scully was already waiting. 

"The windows at that end were covered," she murmured.  
"But through a crack in the blinds I could see a bed and a  
chest of drawers. It seemed unoccupied." 

Mulder tilted his head toward the door and pulled the little  
black lock pick case from his pocket. He was about to  
insert the small device in the keyhole when Scully's hand  
clamped onto his arm. 

"What if there's an alarm?" she hissed. 

Mulder considered, then shrugged. "I don't see what choice  
we have, Scully. We haven't even seen anyone so far.  
Unless you want to wait until morning and ring the  
doorbell, this seems the logical choice." 

Scully hesitated, then released him, though she still looked  
unhappy. Mulder deftly probed the lock with the delicate  
tool, fumbling just a bit with his injured hand, and a  
moment later they slipped inside. 

The short entryway intersected with a hallway that  
appeared to run the width of the building -- long, dark, and  
dimly lit. Scully let Mulder take the lead, following close  
on his heels with her weapon in hand. They passed a  
laundry room with two washers and dryers, redolent with  
the scent of detergent and fabric softener. She panned her  
flashlight around until it rested on a pastel colored pile on  
the end of a long low table. Mulder hovered in the  
doorway, keeping an eye on the corridor, while she walked  
slowly over and lifted a scrap of clothing. 

A blue terrycloth sleeper with a tiny rocking horse  
emblazoned on the breast. 

She silently returned it to the pile and they continued down  
the hall, shoes occasionally emitting a soft squeak on the  
immaculately waxed floor. Eventually they reached the  
huge kitchen that Mulder had viewed from the window.  
Three high chairs lined one wall, six more under the  
window. Mulder opened the extra large refrigerator,  
revealing nearly a dozen prepared bottles, multiple cans of  
formula, and several cases of baby food, not to mention a  
standard assortment of adult fare. 

"Certainly seems we've come to the right place," he said  
quietly. 

More hallways, more doors. Several standard bedrooms  
with adjoining baths, all vacant. An enormous playroom  
with three baby swings, four playpens, and an assortment  
of infant and toddler toys. Scully fingered a set of wooden  
building blocks, her face pinched. The total absence of life  
signs, coupled with silent rooms, added up to only one  
conclusion. Yet they pressed on, both unwilling to voice in  
their heads that which their hearts were screaming. 

Until they found the large nursery with eight cribs and five  
toddler beds. Everything tidily in place except for the  
small, warm bodies. Scully wandered over to a crib and  
lifted a woolly lamb with a wind up key. She turned it a  
few times and the soft chiming of Brahms' Lullaby  
shattered the stillness as violently as a scream. 

"They're gone, Mulder," she said woodenly, eyes glistening  
in the semi-darkness. 

Mulder leaned his forehead against the doorjamb, stomach  
twisting both at the sight of the empty beds and his  
partner's face. He abruptly straightened, eyes flinty. "They  
probably cleared out of here in a hurry. They might have  
missed something," he growled. "There must have been  
records here somewhere." 

After trying several more doors he found a suite of rooms  
that resembled a doctor's office. Two contained exam  
tables, scales, and standard medical instruments such as  
thermometers and otoscopes, and smelled faintly of alcohol  
and disinfectants. One was a standard office with a large  
oak desk, the top devoid of personal effects. Mulder  
rummaged quickly through the drawers, finding only  
pencils, rubberbands, and a pair of broken sunglasses. 

"Mulder, in here." 

He followed her urgent voice into a small adjoining room,  
pausing in surprise. Five large file cabinets took up every  
inch of available space, standing like mute sentries across  
the back wall. Scully tugged impotently on one of the  
drawers, then another. 

"Look out, Scully." 

She stepped aside as he selected a pick and went to work on  
the first cabinet. After several minutes sweat trickled freely  
down his back and he cursed steadily under his breath.  
Finally something shifted with a soft snick, and the button  
popped outward. 

The top drawer contained only a handful of files. Leaving  
Scully to sift through the contents, Mulder moved to the  
next cabinet and repeated the procedure. For a time only  
the soft rustling of paper filled the room as each worked  
through the drawers of the cabinets. 

"This is nothing but garbage!" Mulder growled, slamming a  
drawer shut and wrenching open the next with a metallic  
screech. "Facility maintenance and old equipment log  
sheets." 

"Not much here either," Scully admitted. She paused and  
cocked an ear. "What *is* that sound?" 

Mulder tossed a few papers angrily over his shoulder and  
pulled out a few more. "Huh?" he asked distractedly. 

"That clicking. Mulder, stop a minute." 

He complied, turning to gaze at her impatiently. "Scully,  
what the..." 

"Shhh!" 

Mulder humphed, folding his arms across his chest and  
scowling. After a moment his brow smoothed and he tilted  
his head. "What is it?" 

The soft clicking, obvious now in the silence, kept a regular  
beat, neither speeding up nor slowing down. Mulder  
searched for a clock or some other timepiece, but came up  
empty. Scully licked her lips, backing up a step. 

"Mulder, I'm getting a very bad feeling about this. We have  
to get out of here." 

"We will, Scully, just as soon as we check the other  
cabinets," he replied, looking at her quizzically. "It'll just  
take a few more minutes. We can send a forensics team  
back in the morning and..." 

Scully shook her head vehemently. "No, Mulder. Now. I  
think they've got this place wired. That ticking sounds like  
a bomb." 

He gaped at her, then frowned. "I thought *I* was  
supposed to be the impulsive one! That sound could be  
related to any of the systems in this building, there's  
nothing to indicate..." 

"How many wild ideas have you backed up by saying you  
just 'had a feeling', Mulder? Well now it's my turn. Call it  
intuition, premonition -- I don't care. Let's just leave  
*now*." 

Mulder's lips curved but there was a small line between his  
eyebrows. "Scully, you have no idea what talking like that  
does to me." 

Ignoring him, she pressed her ear to the third file cabinet,  
then the fourth. When she reached the last she lurched  
backward. 

"Whatever it is, it's in there." 

Dropping the half-hearted leer, Mulder stepped over and  
began working the lock. When it snapped open Scully  
immediately grasped the bottom handle with shaking  
fingers. It slid about a quarter of an inch before stalling. 

"Something heavy is in here," she said tersely. 

He added his muscle and the drawer lurched open,  
revealing its contents like a warped Jack-in-the-box. 

An electronic device riddled with multi-colored wires  
entwined around several large chunks of something that  
looked like gray modeling clay. An LED displayed a  
steadily diminishing number, currently 65. 

Click. 64. 

Click. 63. 

"I think I'm having my own premonition," Mulder rasped,  
grabbing her elbow and propelling her toward the doorway.  
"Let's get out of here right now." 

Boots pounding on tile, they fled down hallways that  
suddenly all looked identical. Like rats in a maze, they  
pressed onward toward the back of the building and the  
door they knew awaited them. At one point Mulder made a  
left turn and they plunged headlong into the boiler room,  
the huge furnace's deafening vibrations scraping already  
raw nerves. Scully seized the tail of his leather jacket and  
hauled him back the way they'd come, taking the opposite  
corridor. She nearly sobbed with relief when they passed  
the kitchen and she could make out the entryway just  
beyond. 

She reached the door first, the smooth metal cool against  
her sweaty palm. She tugged hard, horrified when her hand  
lost its purchase and the door never budged. Wrapping her  
fingers around the knob she pulled frantically twice more  
before regaining enough composure to push instead. 

The door flew wide, clanging hard as it impacted the brick  
wall. Frigid air hit flushed faces like a slap, instantly drying  
sweat as they tumbled into the darkness. Ten running steps,  
a roar, and Scully felt her eardrums pop as a giant hand  
lifted her off her feet and pitched her through the air.  
Before she could orient herself to the topsy-turvy view she  
was slammed indiscriminately to the ground with a teeth-  
jarring impact and everything narrowed to a small pinpoint  
of sensation. 

The cold brought her back, penetrating abused bones and  
muscles until they shrieked in protest. A soft moan to her  
right provided the impetus to drag herself upright, blinking  
as the trees spun wildly, then stilled. As soon as she lost  
contact with the icy ground she could feel the superheated  
air, hear the hissing of flames. Rotating her head gingerly,  
she found Hollington Home transformed to an inferno, the  
cheerful crackling occasionally interrupted by a distant  
crash and shower of sparks as more of the building gave  
way under the onslaught. 

Another moan and she found Mulder sprawled face down  
on the grass, his arms curled protectively over his head.  
One eye cracked open at the feel of her fingers on his neck. 

"Scully. You okay?" 

"I'm alive, Mulder. Beyond that I'm reserving judgement,"  
she replied, smoothing a streak of dirt from his cheek.  
"You?" 

He groaned and rolled onto his back, staring up at the stars.  
"My damn head hurts." 

She laughed silently. "'S all right, partner. Mine does too." 

She helped him struggle to a sitting position and they both  
gazed glumly into the flames. 

"I guess that's it then," he said quietly. 

"Not necessarily," she replied, trying to fight her own sense  
of despair. 

Mulder laughed bitterly, the heel of his hand pressed to his  
head. "We've been here enough times, Scully. I should  
certainly be able to recognize it by now." 

"We still have the disk and the microchips," she persisted.  
She tipped her chin up stubbornly. "I won't give up on  
those babies, Mulder. Not while I still draw breath. I refuse  
to just file them away as regrettable but unavoidable  
casualties." 

Mulder reached over to slip his arm around her shoulders.  
"Neither will I." He gave her a small squeeze. "I don't give  
up on the things that are important to me, Scully. No matter  
how long it takes." 

Scully pondered the meaning behind that statement; found  
it when she looked into his eyes. He leaned over and  
pressed a kiss to her brow, bringing his free hand to cup her  
cheek, then tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Struggling  
to his feet, he reached down. 

"Come on, partner. We'd better get someone out here for  
this fire. And I hate to say it, but we need to call Skinner."  
He grimaced. "We got a lotta es'plainin' to do, Lucy." 

She smiled, grasping his hand and let him pull her up. "Uh-  
uh. This one's all yours, G-man. And if I were you? This  
time I'd take the pill first."  
  


X-Files Office  
Monday  
8:03 a.m. 

Mulder opened the door to the office, blinking in surprise at  
the sight of Scully and Digger leaning against his desk,  
identical "cat that ate the canary" grins on their faces. 

"What's this?" he asked, taking off his coat and hanging it  
on the hook. 

"Congratulations!" they cried in unison, moving apart to  
reveal an enormous piece of Scully's famous apple cream  
cheese coffeecake and a large cup of Starbuck's coffee. 

"Welcome back to field agent status, partner," Scully  
added, pleased when his eyes lit up with delight. 

"Look out world, they're turning him loose," Digger  
muttered. 

Mulder sat down in his chair and took a bite of the  
coffeecake, sighing in bliss. "Scully, your mother should be  
granted sainthood just for teaching you how to make this." 

"I'll pass that along, Mulder," she replied dryly. 

"Caffeine!" he crowed after a sip of the coffee. "I haven't  
had a decent cup of coffee since the stuff you brought me  
last week, Digger." 

Scully's eyebrows climbed up her forehead and she turned  
slowly to regard the agent with baleful eyes. "Excuse me?" 

"How was I supposed to know he couldn't have caffeine?"  
Digger whined, extending his hands, palm out, in  
supplication. "Once I found out, Spooky wouldn't give it  
back!" 

"As if," Mulder smirked. "Come on, Scully. Be nice and  
give the man a piece of cake." 

"Thanks, but I gotta run," Digger replied with a wave of his  
hand. "Jeffreys just handed me a new case and I need to  
start a background check on the suspect. And I'm sure you  
two must have a pancreas-eating mutant or two to catch." 

Mulder snorted. "*Liver*, Costanza. Liver-eating mutant." 

Digger looked at him blankly. "There's a big difference?" 

"There is when it's yours he's after," Scully said. 

Digger chuckled and stuck out his hand. "It's been good  
working with you, Dana. You ever need any help keeping  
this guy in line, just give me a call." 

"Like suddenly you're poster boy for the Bureau," Mulder  
said sarcastically. 

Scully surprised them both by grasping Digger's hand and  
pulling him close enough to plant a kiss on his cheek.  
"Thanks for everything, Digger. You'll keep us posted on  
those files?" 

He sobered. "Count on it." Turning to Mulder he touched  
two fingers to his brow in a mock salute. "Take care,  
Spooky. Don't be a stranger, okay?" 

"You too, Digger. Keep in touch." 

When he'd left, Scully crossed the room to sit at her desk.  
She booted up her computer and sorted through the mail,  
glancing up after several minutes to find Mulder still  
reclined in his chair with a bemused expression on his face. 

"Mulder?" she said quietly. "You all right?" 

He moved forward to rest his elbows on the desk, rolling  
the coffee cup between his palms. "There were days I  
couldn't remember why I still did this, Scully. Why I  
bothered getting out of bed in the morning when everything  
seemed to be slipping between my fingers." He chuffed a  
little laugh. "There's nothing like almost losing everything  
to make you realize just how much you've got." He looked  
up at her. "I'm good, Scully. I'm really, really good." 

She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. "Then  
let's get to work, G-man. Skinner just handed us a doozy of  
a case in California that I think is going to be right up your  
alley."  
  


Location Unknown  
Tuesday  
10:34 a.m. 

He watched a tow-headed toddler squeal in delight as a  
worker tossed her a large rubber ball. Nearby a small boy  
with dark curly hair and another with chubby freckled  
cheeks pushed toy cars around a plastic mat. Two workers  
were lulling infants to sleep in large wooden rocking chairs  
while several more babies explored colorful rattles and  
teething rings in a large playpen. 

"How did they make the transition?" 

The man beside him fingered his lab coat nervously.  
"Remarkably well. It was difficult the first night, of course,  
especially for the older ones. Like all children, they are  
extremely adaptable, however, and quickly adjusted to the  
unfamiliar surroundings. As you can see, they're right at  
home now." 

He exhaled a long plume of smoke, never taking his eyes  
from the activity on the other side of the glass. "The lack of  
preparation was regrettable, but we were left with little  
choice." He crushed the spent cigarette beneath his heel,  
simultaneously tapping a replacement from the pack in his  
breast pocket. "Are accommodations prepared for the new  
arrivals?" 

"Ready and waiting. This facility is actually much better  
suited to handle an increase in subjects," the doctor replied  
eagerly. 

The flick of a lighter and another long puff of smoke  
through pursed lips. Gray eyes left the window to regard  
the physician coldly. "Children, doctor. Extremely  
important children. I suggest you keep that in mind.  
Someday you may owe them your life." 

"Yes, sir. I will, sir." 

A commotion arose as the child who had been playing ball  
tripped over a toy and fell, skinning her knee. One of the  
workers calmly took the wailing girl onto her lap,  
attempting to soothe her while scraped flesh oozed bright  
green fluid. After a moment the child's tears abruptly  
ceased and she began wriggling against the worker's gentle  
grasp, the skin of her knee now whole and unblemished.  
The worker released the toddler with an indulgent chuckle,  
and she scampered off. 

Behind the glass, the smoking man smiled.  
  



End file.
